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THE     POET 


AND 


ELEGIAC  POEMS 


BY 

LOUIS  M.  ELSHEMUS 

Author  of  Countless  Works  in  Literature  and  Art 
Born  1864 

Cover  Design  and  Decorations  by  the  Author 


EASTMAN  LEWIS 

304  East  Twenty-third  Street 
NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1907 

by 

LOUIS  M.  ELSHEMUS 
New  York 


336802 


CONTENTS. 

Scorn  Ye  Not  the  Poet 9 

The   True    Poet 10 

Sonnettines    12 

November-Eve     13 

"     (Ten  Years  After) 31 

The    Poet    43 

Poetry     43 

All  I  Wish  For 43 

Song- Flood    44 

Your  Poet 45 

When  the  Spirits  Come 46 

The  Poet   48 

To  the   Mountain  Brooklet 50 

Contrast    51 

Poets 52 

The  Poet   53 

Sonnet 54 

Jones  Very 55 

Greatness     56 

Who  Understands   Him? 57 

The  Poet   58 

Genius     59 

The  Poet   59 

Woman  Flowers    61 

To  My  Muse 62 

God  Is  Spirit 62 

The  Muse  Will  Whisper  Soon  Again 63 

A   Charles   Baudelaire 65 

Elegy     66 

Our  Soul    67 

The  Soul    68 

Life    69 

Fire    69 

The  Angels  Will  Whisper  Again 70 

Song 73 

Why?     74 


CONTENTS 

Elegiac  Poems. 

Victor — A   Fragment 78 

Une  Question 91 

A  Forsaken  Grave-Lot 92 

To  Walcott   Balestier 95 

A  Tune  .; 99 

The   Minstrel's   Recompense 99 

Edgar   G.    Brooks 101 

Destruction    102 

Death 104 

Lines    104 

Visions    106 

Think  of  the  Angels 109 

Correspondence  Terminated   110 

Yaniun     110 

Elegie    Ill 

Milton's  Italian  Sonnet 113 

Death  and   Life 114 

Life  and   Death 115 

What  the  Inner  Eye  Doth  See 116 

God's    Supremacy 117 

When  We  Are  Dead 118 

Elegy     119 

At  Death    123 

Little   by   Little 124 

Death     -. 124 

Baby  Louise 125 

Poetry  Reading   128 

After  Death  Is  Glow 129 

Evening  Lines    130 

Hymn 131 


CONTENTS 

In  Lighter  Vein. 

A  Country  Child 133 

Song  to  the  Ocean 137 

Strange    . 138 

Hearing   139 

Ode  to  Robert  Schumann 142 

Song   144 

Song    145 

A  Fancy   146 

Song    148 

Mastery    148 

Beim  Wasserfall   149 

Gruss  an  den  Wasserfall 150 

Friihling    151 

Waldesstille    152 

To  Tennyson   155 


THE 

POET 


T  'h  e  -P  D  c  : 


SCORN  YE  NOT  THE  POET. 

Scorn  ye  not  the  poet,  God's  foster-child ! 
Ye    who    brood    o'er    shelves,    with    silver 

thronged, 
Know   that   he   at    earth's     sweet    prelude 

longed 

First  to  pipe  his  lay  in  God's  own  guild ! 
Ye,  that  crouch  in  timid  awe  and  fear — 
Ye,  that  coin  a  thousand  shames  each  year — 
Ye,  that  prowl  about,  with  pride  as  arms — 
Ye,  that  bring  to  Virtue  many  harms ! 

Scorn  ye  not  the  poet,  God's  lesser  self! 
For  he  reads  the  scrolls  that  God  hath  writ — 
He  is  donned  with  wisdom,  and  with  wit — 
He,  whom  God  entrusts  to  scan  His  Shelf — 
Scorn  him  not;  for  scorning  him  is  sin! 
Ye,  that  lead  a  life  to  cheat  and  win — 
Ye,  that  bask  in  garbs,  brocaded  o'er — 
Ye,  that  trumpet  "Gold"  forevermore ! 

Scorn  ye  not  the  poet,  God's  foster-child! 

Ye,  that  live  but  lulled  by  Epicure — 

Ye,  that  doze  in  arms  o'  a  synecure — 

Know  his  soul  to  be  a  temple  undefiled — 

His  heart  a  tender  solace,  good  and  true — 


*&::•  The    Poet 

His  aims,  thought  kindly  for  the  good  of  you — 
Know  him  thus,  O  ye  that  breathe  away, 
Never    knowing    what    brought    night — what 
day! 

Scorn  ye  not  the  poet,  God's  lesser  self ! 
To  him  God  hath  ope'd  a  door  of  Heaven — 
And  a  drop  of  Angel's  Knowing  given ! 
Know  it,  ye,  that  live  from  secret  pelf — 
Know  it,  ye,  that  laugh  at  holy  rites — 
Ye,  that  think  the  days  are  tranquil  nights — 
Ye,  whose  pate  is  propt  with  dress  and  gloss — 
Ye,  that  make  but  this  world's  putrid  dross ! 

(1885) 


THE  TRUE   POET. 

O,  the  true  poet  is 

A  clay  that  God  doth  kiss — 

He  is  ethereal ! 
O,  the  true  poet's  born 
To   sing  of  eternal   morn — 

He  is  celestial ! 

His  heart  more  quickly  beats — 
His  thoughts  are  lightning  flames 
His  soul  all  purely  names 
Of  life  the  holy  sweets! 
He  lives  with  inspiration, 

Divinest  abstract  on  this  globe ! 


The    Poet  n 

He   dreams   in   exaltation, 

To  thought  brings  brightest  robe! 
O,  inspiration,  the  poet's  flame! 

Tis  not  the  working  of  the  brain — 

Nor  is  it  the  deep  musing  of  the  mind, 
'Tis  not  the  drudge  by  oil — in  pain ; 

Nor   is   it   over-thought   that   makes   one 

blind. 

O  list !   It  is  a  magic  law,  that  flows 
Into  the  blessed  one;  it  cometh 

Ere  he  knows 

Its  presence,  that,  like  roses  bloometh. 
O,  list !   It  is  a  wondrous  gift,  that  comes 
Unbidden,  like  the  pang  of  lover 

Burns  in  love's  homes; 
It  purleth  freshly  there — like  some  new-rover 

In  ^Egel's  crystal  castle-fane^ 
When  full  ambrosial  blow  the  scents, 

And  tinkling  sound  her  purls  again! 
So  lavishes  great  inspiration's  flame 
Its  glow  !  with  blisses,  and  loud  merriments ! ! 

(1885) 


12  The     Poet 

SONNETTINES. 
I. 

A  man  may  master  blood, 
May  foster  purer  flood- 
But   man   may   nevermore 
Fathom  the  soul's  wide  core ! 
The  mind   with  blood   runs  o'er 
The  brain  bears  aptitude — 
In  soul's  sweet  solitude 
There  gleams  that  heavenly  shore ! 

Fair  Science  boasts  of  Fame, 

Pride  won!     But  disbelieves 

In  miracles  of  Faith — and  grieves 

That  God  is  but  a  name ! 

Ay,  true-born  poet  sieves 

That  dross — and  glows  His  Flame ! 

II. 

O,  more  and  more  I  see, 
The   true   Divinity 
Outshines   Science  and   Skill : 
The  Wheel  of  world's  loud  Mill. 

'Tis  Thought,  self-winnowed  Will — 
'Tis  Wisdom,  Nature's  glee — 
Tis  Knowledge  that  He  be— 
Our  soul  with  light  doth  fill! 


T  he     P  o  e  t  13 

O,  let  no  one  despair 

When  lost  in  ignorance! 

Be  thinking! — till  in  trance, 

A  flash  of  Wisdom's  glare  \ 

Thy  knowing  shall  advance; 

For  lo !  thy  God  gleamed  there ! 

NOVEMBER-EVE. 

THE}    MUSK. 

Upturn  thy  gaze  to  Eve's  immortal  splendor, 
And   read  therefrom    the  boons    to    every 

.  creature : 

And  lo !  the  Spirit  of  the  ^Eons  will  tender 
Thee  songs,  that  take  their  passion  from  fair 
nature ! 

THE:  LONELY  ONE). 

As  ravished  as  the  mariner 

Who  sees  a  gleam  of  verdure  near, 
My  eyes  see  thee,  immortal  Spirit ! 
As  gladly  as  the  snow-lost  hears 
The  far-off  village  bells  and  cheers 

That  guide  him  from  a  doom 
.  He  untimely  would  inherit — 

Thy  voice  divine  I  hear — I  hear ; 
And  out  from  my  soul's  gloom 

There  bounds  a  flash — that  thou  art  near ! 


14  The    Poet 

THE  MUSE). 

Whilome  thy  floods  of  song 
Rushed  from  thy  willing  soul 
Fleet,  sweetly  as  the  stream, 
Where  Ladon's  lilies  dream. 
Why  these  long  days  so  lorn, 
Hope  dead,  ambition  shorn, 
Like  weary  wolds  that  lie 
Beneath  an  ashen  sky? 
Why  no  more  lyre  tunes, 
No  more  those  liquid  runes, 
That,  through  the  breezes  flung, 
Seemed  as  if  Angels  sung? 
No  more  that  eye  inspired, 
No  more  that  forehead,  fired 
With  Heaven-sparks,  that  glow 
With  truths  of  long  ago ! 
Why,  Child,  hast  like  a  bough 
That  droops  from  frost  and  snow 
Kept  long  thine  arm; — no  more 
Hast  listened  to  the  voice 
Appointing  thee  the  choice 
Of  Heaven's  Tribunal  high, 
To  sing  Eternity! 
Sweet   Child — recall   those  hours, 
That  fled  in  lays  and  flowers; 
And,  with  my  lute,  intone 
What  made  thee  lorn  and  lone ! 


The     Poet 


THE;  LONELY  ONE:. 

The  nightshade  better  be 
Hidden  in  secrecy. 
The  doleful  nightingale 
Intrudes  not  in  the  vale 
Where  Shiraz-roses  bud- 
Where  happy  brooklets  flood 
A  downward  stream.    O  Muse ! 
Why  tempt  me?     Why  not  choose 
A  shepherd,  piping  gay 
His  love-wrought  roundelay? 
But  ask  not  one  whose  woe 
Would  weave,  as  long  ago, 
The  Lady  of  Shalot, 
A  shroud  with  blot  and  blot 
Of  heart-blood ; — wet  with  tears, 
O  streaming  all  these  years! 
Forbear,  sweet  Muse !  'twere  well 
If  sorrow  would  not  tell 
Its  grief,  nor  wan  despair 
Irradiate  what  be  there 
Of  cold  light,  like  the  moon's, 
When  the  clear  autumn  swoons. 
Oh,    laughter,    hyena-like, 
Upon  mine  ears  would  strike 
Were  I  to  sing  of  loss — 
Of  all  this  worldly  dross; 
And  ever  would  I  hear 
A  waxing  taunt  and  jeer. 


16  The    Poet 

THE:  MUSS. 

Lo,  Child !  the  gold  moon  glows, 
And  though  a  million  minds 

Would  have  it  dark, — it  glows ! 
Unchanged  by  a  million  minds ! 

THE:  LONEXY  ONE:. 

O  Muse,  like  buoyant  waves, 

That  feel  the  wind's  quick  stress, 
My  words  swell — and  are  slaves 

To  thy  high  prompting's  sound !  • 
The  poet's  song 'is  sent 
From   Heaven's   instrument. 
Though  scores  of  pens  would  dress 
His  lay,  his  lore  profound, 
With  garbs  to  suit  the  crowd — 
Lo,  Muse !   'twould  be  a  shroud. 
But  with  thy  spirit's  breath 
As  aft'  the  day's  glow-death 
The  moon  outshineth  million  lights 
That  scintillate  in  towns,  by  bights. 
Those  thoughts  that  from  me  grow 
Are  flamed  with  Heaven's  glow ! 

THE:  MUSE:. 

Thou  art  again  my  child, 
For  in  thy  sayings  wild, 
Like  Nature's  wind  and  gale, 
A  spirit  sings! 


The    Poet  17 

THE    LONELY    ONE. 

Exhale 

That  love  that  once  was  mine, 
O  Muse  ! — thoti  all-divine  ! 

THE  MUSE. 

My  love  shall  mingle  with  thine— 
Sing  of  thy  woe ! 

THE    LONELY    ONE. 

Recline 

Fhine^ear  upon  the  troubled  air, 
And  list  to  how  some  mortals  fare: 
Of  one  I  sang  for  many  years, 
O  Muse,  thy  breath  took  up  my  tears 
And  one  near  day  those  vapors  will 
Be    roseate    in    my    evening,    still 
And  calm  as  sunset  'baft  a  hill 
That  wards  from  blasts  thrift  's  blissful  mill ! 
Of  one   I  think,  and  only  one; 
But  no  words  flow— like  lifeless  stone 
My  thought  lies— like  a  monument 
Upon  a  mound,  where  tears  are  blent 
With  morn's  and  evening's  dew.    And  lo ! 
In  my  despair  I  heard  the  flow 
Of  world's  unruly  river; — drowned 
In  it — my  head,  with  lilies  crowned, 
Had  felt  the  thuds  of  its  gloom-waves ; 


18  T  h  c     P  o  e  t 

But  my  soul  knew  that  high  thought  saves! 
Though  splash  on  splash  the  crisps  did  meet, 
Though  wave  on  wave  engulfed  me  fleet. 
Lo  Muse !  withthrough  the  leaden  roar 
There  streamed  sweet  music  from  the  shore. 
It  lingered  in  mine  ears — it  filled 
My  heart — my  dying  soul  it  thrilled 
With  new  surprise,  and  noble  deed : 
A  savior  'twas  in  my  great  need ! 

THE   MUSE. 

0  Child  unkind —  forgetful  youth, 
'Twas  I  who  gave  thee  back  high  truth. 

1  followed  thee — I  dipped  my  hand 
Into  the  current  and  showed  thee  land ! 

THE   LONELY   ONE. 

But  listless  grew  I,  and  I  dashed 

My  life  within  the  flood  again. 

I  sought  for  eyes,  by  Beauty  flashed 

To  glorious  orbs.     Among  the  train 

Of  men  and  women  my  steps  led, 

Till  wild  my  thought  waxed — and  my  head 

Purled  drops  of  disappointment's  tears! 

No  one  would  love  me — no  bright  cheers 

Would  echo  my  all-loving  cry, 

That  called  to  all  for  sympathy.! 

Through  the  thick  multitudes  of  man 

Like  a  wild  beast  of  prey  I  ran — 


The     Poet 

Desirous  that  some  heart  would  be 
Heart-friend,  and  pure  soul-love  to  me. 
But  on,  through  streams  of  motley  hearts, 
My  inner  wound  pained,  as  if  darts 
With  Upas  poisoned  pierced  a-through. 
O  mercy!   Fierce  my  heartsore  grew; 
It  shed  its  shadow  on  my  soul, 
That  waged  as  when  loud  thunders  roll! 

THE   MUSE. 

0  Child,  if  thou  hadst  kept  that  fire, 
Which  but  the  Angels  do  inspire, — 
High  wisdom,  which  they  gave  to  thee, 
Half  of  thy  woes  were  vanity ! 

The  thunders  roar,  deluge  the  plain — 
What  brightness  after  summer  rain ! 
And  what  are  moments  to  that  plan 
Of  nature,  are  long  years  to  man! 

1  know  the  rest,  lorn  Child ;  for  God 
Keeps  watch  for  all  upon  earth's  sod. 
But  sing  to  me  how  Angels  came 
To  thee,  recalling  mine  own  name, 

As  when  eve-breezes  rustle  low 
The  poplars  'long  the  plain  a-row  row. 

THE   LONELY   ONE. 

O  Muse,  thy  voice  is  sweet  to  me, 
As  the  bird's  chirp  in  blossomed  tree ! 
As  fond  am  I  of  thy  dear  love 


2O  T  h  c    P  o  c  t 

As  of  warm  scent  from  jessamine-grove! 

I  tell  thee,  Muse !    O  thou  dost  know 

All,  for  'twas  thy  unforecalled  glow 

Pervading  me  in  dire  despair — 

Preserving  me  from  Death's  cold  stare ! 

I  know  not  whither  wend  my  way : 

Around  the  gay  crowds,  with  sea-sway 

And  current  flow,  tormented  me. 

I  wished  to  clasp  each  to  my  breast, 

But  none  would  come,  would  list  to  me! 

I  felt  like  brine  in  eve's  unrest ! 

Then  plunged  an  evil  mood  into 

My  stormy  soul ;  my  hands  clutched  fast 

My  robe's  own  hem — till  the  anger  passed. 

I  felt  as  if  my  anger  slew 

Each  one  that  gazed  at  me ;  when  lo ! 

As  through  the  fuscous  cloud  there  flow 

The  blandest  beams  from  midnight's  moon : 

There    streamed   through   my   soul    saddest 

song ! 

To  the  town-winds  I  'gan  to  croon 
\  dirge,  that  trailed  my  love  along 
The  dusky  bournes  of  death;  like  air 
To  dingy  rooms,  where  ugly  dreams 
Pollute  the  mind — so  was  that  fair 
And  mournful  elegy! — O  gleams 
From  olden  hours  wandered  through 
The  gloom  and  storm — it  was  as  dew 
To  parched  leaves — it  was  a  light 
Flashed  forth  to  guide  a  ship  aright ! 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  21 


THE  MUSK. 

'Twas  I  who  sent  relief  to  rage, 
Thy  beading  woe  to  assuage. 
I  followed  thee,  and  when  thy  strength 
Had  nigh  outrun  its  wonted  length 
Of  endurance — as  the  stream  of  rays 
Pours  from  dun  clouds  on  autumn  days 
Upon   the  drenched  briers — how 
They  glisten ! — so  those  strains  that  thou 
Hadst  felt  back  of  thy  forehead's  bone 
Were  shed  from  me  upon  thee,  lone, 
Despairing  in  the  heartless  town ! 

THE    LONELY    ONE. 

O  Muse,  as  thunder's  clash  proclaims 

The  infinite  Power  of  Him,  with  names 

As  many  as   the   nations  be — 

So  that  sweet  sense   (so  suddenly 

Through  my  soul  shining;  in  my  heart 

Consoling,  till  with  it  a  part 

Of  thy  all-holy  spirit  clung 

To  me — till  all  my  thoughts  grew  young — 

Till  in  that  trance  my  woes  were  lost — 

A  calm  set  o'er  me!),  whispered  me 

That  some  elected  from  the  host 

Of  Heaven  sent  their  true  child :  thee,  thee, 

Muse  !  Soul  of  the  Divinity ! 

Then,  in  my  soul  it  sang,  and  sang — 

Abided  there: 


22  T  h  e    P  o  e  t 

A  star  is  risen! 
From  back  of  musing's  shorty  mountain. 

It  will  not  set  too  soon— 
For  over  glorious  midnight  heaven, 
And  down  from  zenith's  dizzy  height 
It  has  to  reach  the  eastern  portal 

Of  earth's  involving  dome! 

A  star  is  risen! 
It  shines  and  twinkles  in  its  crescent: 

To  glow,  and  ease  my  woe. 
For,  ere  it  sinketh  to  morn's  splendor. 
Past  moon  and  other  stars  it  speeds. 
Oh!  may  it  burn,  and  no  thick  vapors 

May  gloom  its  glowing  track! 

It  rang,  and  rang, 

As  through  the  fragrant  forests  green 
The  ripple  of  the  brook,  between 
The  mossed  oaks,  rings  clear  and  long. 

0  Muse,  then  burned  I  in  my  wrong: 

1  swore  to  be  thine  evermore ; 

To  tune  my  song  with  wisdom  hoar — 
So  that  when  passing  men  shall  hear 
Their  strains,  those  people  shall  revere 
Them  e'er,  as  winds  of  India 
Are  hallowed ! 

THE    MUSE. 

Sweetest,  dearest  way 
Of  God !  reminding  thec  ^i  love  — 


T  h  e    P  o  e  t  23 

O   glorious,   never   to   reprove 
The  errors  of  His  children  —  lo  ! 
Withthrough    their    souls   His    Preachings 

flow- 

As  even  through  tumultuous  skies 
The  gentle  breeze's  melodies  ! 
O  sing  to  me  that  weird,  sweet  tune 
That  He  sent  thee  —  as  through  fair  June 
The  humid  clouds  fold  one  by  one, 
And  sink  into  the  depth  of  eve  — 
So  must  that  song  now  smile,  then  grieve  ; 
For  life  is  joy,  with  woe's  low  tone! 


THE    LONELY    ONE. 

With  secrecy  am  I  in  bond, 

O  Muse!  I  swore  to  her,  my  fond 

Unending  love  to  keep  those  lays 

Unseen  to  others,  till  far  days 

Shall  nobly  tender  them  to  her; 

When  she  no  longer  shall  demur, 

Like  poppy-blooms  in  August-morns, 

To  burn  for  me  all  that  adorns 

Her  nubile   Naiad-frame  : 

So  pure,  and  without  any  shame  ! 

O  Muse,  art  thou  like  woman's  mind 

Disguising  what  gay  truth  should  find 

Upon  the  frank-flashed  eye  !    I  know 

That  thou  hadst  whispered  me,  through  glow 

Of  Heaven's  Love,  that  saddest  strain  : 

To   mitigate   the   eking   pain 


24  The     P  oet 

Consuming  me — when  lo — aright 

Were  all  thy  promptings — saved  thy  light ! 

THE  MUSE. 

As  butterfly  the  virgin  bloom, 
So  kiss  I  thee,  thy  love-lorn  doom! 
We  are  eternal  friends — in  Heaven 
As  well  on  earth,  where  there  are  given 
To  thee  such  gifts  to  take  men's  souls 
To  light — and  glorify  their  goals, 
They  deem  a  darkness  all  inane— 
O  pity,  pity  those! 

THE    LONELY    ONE. 

Again 

Inspire  me  with  lofty  themes, 
Till,  with  my  words,  from  soul's  vast  dreams* 
A  western  cloud-awe  shall  arise 
To  lead  all  to  a  new  surprise. 
O  as  the  peasant  loves  the  set 
Of  sun — as  maid  the  violet 
As  nosegay  for  her  lad — so  be 
My   spalm,   my   roundelay — a  glee 
To  hoary  hairs — a  rapture  sweet 
To  dancing,  or  to  hurrying  feet! 

THE  MUSE. 

So  thou  repentest  of  thy  wrong — 
Thou  wilt  rejoice  in  Heaven's  song! 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  25 

Oh !  feel  my  breath,  and  know  the  truth : 
My  blessing  blooms  eternal  youth ! 
O  say  in  thine  own  wild,  fond  way 
That  thou  wilt  list  to  me  alway ! 

THE  LONELY  ONE. 

It  is  a  song  within  my  soul : 

One  summer's  morn,  by  shining  knoll, 

By  silvery  brooklet,  fragrant  trees, 

While  passing  all  men's  faculties 

Before  me,  even  as  the  west 

Its  sauntering  shapes  reviews — 

While  dreaming  on  in  avenues 

That  led  to  possibilities 

Of  world's  improvements — while  with  ease, 

And  languid  thought  I  watched  the  brook, 

And  caught  soft  sounds  in  beechen  nook: 

A  bird  flew  up — with  liquid  song 

Filled  all  the  silentness — along 

The    brooklet   flitted — 'bove    the    pine 

Shot  out  of  sight! — A  flash  divine 

Flamed  in  my  musing — joyously 

My  soul  and  heart  I  pledged  to  Thee, 

O  Muse,  thou  Soul  of  Heaven's  glee ! 

That  bird  had  its  own  lay — oh !  free, 

Uncensured  sang  harmoniously 

To  Nature,  and  to  knowing  man — 

Like  to  its  life,  so  I  will  plan 

My  days ;  and,  as  the  bird's  sweet  song 

Enraptured  me,  thine  echoes  throng 


26  The    P  oet 

The  hearts  of  those  who  listen  deep 
To  thine  own  lays ! 

THE    MUSE. 

The  mountain's  steep 
Seems  low  from  where  the  deep  blue  lake 
Reflects  the  shining  green ! 

THE  LONELY  ONE. 

Oh !  take 

Not  what  in  me  doth  rise  like  flame ! 
The  bird  flew  up  with  confidence 
In  all  its  lay — with  His  high  Name 
Will  bloom  my  song! 

THE  MUSE. 

Thy  lofty  sense 
Includes  thee  to  my  votaries ! 
O  let  that  bird  bring  melodies 
Within  thy  life — so  led,  that  men 
Rejoice,  when  through  their  hazy  ken 
Thou   fliest — even   as   that  bird ! 

THE  LONELY  ONE. 

To  thee  and  thine  be  what  had  stirred 

Within  my  soul !     O  I  shall  be 

Heaven's  thunderbolts ;  and  lightnings  free, 

Shall  pillar  flames  like  Aetna's  fire; 

Make  men  astound  with  sweet-touched  lyre, 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  27 

As  when  a  town-pent  man  perceives 

In  holt  forlorn  the  trembling  leaves, 

And  hears  athrough  a  magic  weaving: 

Portentous  preludes  to  a  lay, 

Presaging  all   the   soul's  upheaving 

At  knowledge  of  its  future  day. 

O  I  shall  be  the  ice  that  forms 

When  Winter  ponders; — furious  storms, 

That  trumpet  to  the  woods  the  power 

Of  moods !  .From  me  shall  blow,  and  shower 

Adown  on  mankind  that  there  be 

One   All — the   true   Divinity! 

The  echoes  of  my  soul  s'hall  sound 

To  him  and  her — O  all  around 

Man's   thinking,   actuating  truth, 

To  wisely  temper  joys  of  youth ! 

The  stars,  in  figures  set  up  there 

In  night's  all-ominous  silentness, 

Shall  seem  as  brands  on  my  high  prayer, 

Imploring  for  men's  happiness ! 

Ah !  as  the  surf  seethes  mysteries, 

(Hale  buoyancy — a  salt  sea-grave; 

Eternal  influx — ebbing  seas; 

Earth-eater — all  the  droughts  to  save;  — 

If  in  condensed  air  creatures  live 

Why   not    in    ether   rarified, 

Another  life?) — so  will  I  give 

All  what  my  surging  soul,  so  wide, 

And  boundless,  whispers — moans — 

Sings  occult  sooths  in  undertones ! 


28  The    Poet 

THE   MUSE. 

I  see  the  tremulous  Light  of  Heaven  — 
To  all  true  poets  ever  given — 
Glow  over  thee ! — e'en  as  the  gleam 
Of  Orient  joy!    O  keep  thy  dream, 
As  though  it  were  thy  holy  love. 
With  me  sing  of  the  stars  above — 
Decipher  all  their  figures — show 
To  man  they  signal  Heaven's  glow ! 

THE   LONELY  ONE. 

O  joy  that  boundeth  through  the  soul, 

Even  as  after  thunder's  roll, 

When  in  the  luminous  west  a  haze 

Doth  blear  the  silvery  falling  blaze — 

Like  thought  unboded — springs  the  bow 

Of  iridescent  bands  in  glow ! 

O  joy,  when,  all  untutored,  high, 

Before  unthought-of  lore  uprises 

Within  the  soul !   how  it  surprises  ! 

What  worthy  proof  that  potency, 

Apart  of  schoolman's  say, 

Enters  our  soul   with  instructive  lay ! 

O  Muse,  thou  sheddest  on  me  lore 

A Ty  brain  has  never  known  before! 

THE   MUSE. 

Who  knoweth  how  the  grass  doth  green — 
How  rain's  upheld  below  the  sheen 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t 

Of  liquid-lipping  sun!     Who  saw 

The  moment  when  the  white  fields  thaw  — 

And  when  the  grey  bark  teems  in  sap  — 

When  flowers  color  Spring's  bright  lap. 

Who  thinks  that  sparkling  stars  could  be 

Glow-gems  held  up  by  laws  they  see 

Reflected  in  the  clouds  that  roll 

And  thunder;  —  who  may  read  the  scroll 

That  Nature  keeps  unfolded  !  —  so 

My  visitings   come   secretly, 

To  others  unbeheld;  they  glow 

In  thy  wild  verses  —  praising  me! 


29 


Y  ONE;. 

Through  thee  I  know  why  stars  are  shining, 

Why  clouds  appear  with  silver  lining. 

O  Muse,  my  friend,  through  thee  the  gift 

By  means  of  words,  men's  thought  to  lift 

To  regions,  where  faith's  calm  and  glee 

Face  Soul's  Eternity  ! 

O  Muse,  as  once  thou  hadst  inspired 

Melodious   Beethoven  —  fired 

His  soul  to  cry  that  highest  aim 

Of  earthly  life   is  not  a  fame  — 

But  to  be  seeking  Heaven's  Halls  ; 

When  found,  in  blissful  voice  proclaim 

To  all  the  Elysian  prodigals 

Of  raptures  never  known  to  shame, 

Or   to   voluptuous   sensuousness. 

So  kindle  my  brain's  rich  fagots  —  bless 


30  T  h  e    P  o  e  t 

Me,  so  to  sing  of  soul's  delights 
To  him  whom  yet  his  clay  benights  ! 

THE    MUSE. 

When  through  the  evening  dun 

Arises  slow,  austere,  the  moon, 

The  earth's  disquietude 

Is  calmed  —  for  o'er  night's  deep 

Sunbeams  their  reign  yet  keep, 

Till   morn's   awakening  brood 

Of  Sun-rays  fill  the  air 

With   signs   of  constancy. 

O  Child,  so  know  I  thee, 

Filled   with   soul's  Heaven  fair;  — 

That  when  thy  day  will  come 

To  glow  again  —  thy  tomb 

Shall  be  those  songs,  full-toned, 

Augmented,  symphonic,  sweet; 

Till  like  sun's  rays  they  greet 

A  morn  that  all  dead  poets  owned  ! 


THE  LONELY  ONE. 
As  lilies  the  morning  dew, 
As  evening  the  tinted  hue  : 
So   feel   I   thy   rare  kiss, 
O  Muse  ! 

THE   MUSE. 
Now  write  !  and  wish 
That  ever  I  shall  be 
Thy  friend  in  woe,  or  glee! 


The     Poet  31 


THE  LONELY  ONE. 

I  see  thee  melting  slowly 
Into  the  unknown  !     Again 
Appear  to  commune  holy, 
To  weave  a  flowered  strain ! 

O  thou  wilt  be  mine  soon 
More  scores  of  times  more  dear, 
For   to   thine   inspiration's   cheer 
Will  mate  experience's  boon ! 

THE  MUSE. 

Experience  is  the  moon — 
The  Sun  is  inspiration ! 

THE  LONELY  ONE. 

O  Knowledge  is  the  moon — 
The  Sun  is  soul's  elation! 

Paris,  France   (1887) 


NOVEMBER  EVE. 
(Ten  Years  After— 1897). 

THE  MUSE. 

Art  thou  asleep,  my  silent  one, 
That  when  the  trees  are  glowing 


32  ThcPoet 

In  red  and  saffron  to  the  sun 
Thy  feet  are  no  more  going 
To  lonely  nooks  in  woodlands  fair, 
Or  stray  o'er  fields  now  almost  bare? 

Art  thou  an  alien  to  the  dells— 
To  streams,  and  gorges  wild ; 
For  once,  when  autumn  drearly  tells 

Her  hectic  tale,  my  Child, 
Thou  wouldst  stand  awe-bound  on  the  plain 
To  view  the  sun-glow  aft'  the  rain ! 

Thou  wouldst  be  loitering  alone 

Like  bard  of  olden  time, 
Upon  the  hillside,  flower  o'ergrown, 

To  hearken  for  a  rhyme — 
To  listen  for  a  ballad — or  to  see 
The  action  for  a  tragedy ! 

Sing,  Lonely  One,  for  still  in  strife 
Thou  art,  though  ten  long  years 
Were  time  enow  to  cheer  thy  life 

That  then  knew  wail  and  tears : — 
O  must  thou  sing  a  song  of  woe 
When  now  the  autumn  woodlands  glow ! 

THE    LONELY    ONE. 

Arousest  thou  me,  as  in  days  afar, 

Out  of  dreariness  and  lethargy? 
O  Muse,  thou  art  come  like  that  guiding  star 


The    P  o  et  33 

Through  the  cloud  rack,  riven  o'er  the  sea, 
That   shows    the   lost   mariner   the    Southern 

Cross, 

So  they  steer  their  ship  in  safety ! 
Thou  art  come  to  me  like  in  hurtling  war,  • 
When  truce  comes  aft'  long  hours  of  loss 

and  loss. 

Thou  dost  ask  me  why  no  longer  I  roam 

Through    the    woods,   by   the    gorges,    and 

fields. 

O  Muse,  they  were  once  my  passion  and  my 
home. 

Now  my  lyre  to  songs  of  mankind  yields. 
Aye  too  well  do  I  know  I  forsake  the  wood ; 

But  now  my  sad  mind  humanity  wields — 
And  to  the  welfare  of  man  a  fair  tome 

I  indite — so  I  live  in  sad  solitude. 

THE:  MUSE:. 

Whilom,  ten  years  ago  thy  mind 

Was  gifted  for  that  service  rare ; 
But  then  through  cold  November  wind 

Thou  wouldst  slow  wander  here  and  there 
Away  from  loud-voiced  streets  and  man — 
To    dream    in    Nature   of    some    Heaven-built 
plan ! 

Then  wouldst  thou  wander  all  alone 
Near  to  the  alleyed  Tuilleries, 


34  T  he     P  o  et 

And  dream  of  France's  long-dead  throne, 

And  hear  kings  sigh  within  the  breeze — 
Then    wouldst    thou    stand    when    moonlight 

glowed, 

On  Pont  des  Arts,  all  while  the  swift  Seine 
flowed. 

Then  wouldst  thou  gaze  upon  the  moon 

That  shone  above  the  Bourbon  Palace — 
Then  still  thou  foundest  for  thee  a  boon 
To  walk  down  boulevards  and  alleys : 
Arriving  home,  thy  lyre  wouldst  take 
And   sing   great   themes   that   kept   thy   gifts 
awake. 

But  now  thou  seemest  like  old  age 

Forsaking  joy  and  company — 
And  in  thy  song-book  not  one  page 

Glows  radiant  with  one  melody. 
O  why  art  thou   forlorn,  though  years  have 

passed  ? 
Can  ill-hap  with  lone  tears  forever  last? 

THE:  LONELY  ONE:. 

O  Muse,  it  seems  some  are  ill-fated  men, 
And  never  may  they  see  bright  days  again. 
Ten  years  I've  wrought  fair  work  for  thee  and 

thine — 
Rapt  Pao  and  Euterpe  all  divine ! 


The     P  oet  35 

But  through  those  studious  hours  not  an  one 
Encouraged  me — I  must  needs  work  alone ! 
My  friends — and  one  I  helped  in  hours  of 

need — 

They  are  high  on  the  steps  of  Fame,  indeed ; 
While  I  am  as  I  was  when  musing  deep 
In  France's  capital.    For  work  I  reap 
But  cold  neglect,  and  my  utter  loneliness — 
Obscure  am  I,  with  not  a  love's  caress — 
E'er  fashioning  anew  without  reward — 
Still  hoping  as  my  will  such  can  afford, 
Still  willing  sing  in  praise  of  God  and  Love, 
Still  trusting  that  Heaven  is  a  world  above! 

THE:  MUSE:. 

Last  night  I  saw  the  crescent  low 

Above  the  roofs,  between  two  spires,  glow ; 

Th'  horizon,  like  a  dim-lit  arrassed  wall, 

Had  dun-tinged  purple  clouds  as  pall ; 

And  drearily  the  north-wind  blew, 

While   o'er   the   zenith,   as   aft'   a   storm,   the 

clouds 

Wore  heavily ;  but  'mong  stray  crowds 
Upon  the  streets  I  knew 
Thee  not  to  stand  observant  there — 
But  absent-minded  was  thy  worried  stare! 

THE    LONELY    ONE. 

Too  much  engrossed  in  the  sad  tricks  men  use 


36  T  h  e     P  o  c  t 

To  scale  the  height  of  fame :— the  means  they 

choose 

To  be  renowned  for  one  short  month  at  best. 
Too  sad  in  heart  to  know  that  love  is  foam- 
Too  sober  thinking  of  the  poor  distressed— 
Of  those  who  have  no  bread  nor  decent  home. 
I  cannot  gaze  upon  the  luminous  moon, 
Nor  gaze  athrill  at  stars  without  as  soon 
Feeling  wrath  swell  within  my  manly  breast. 
Yet  must  I  curb  my  ire  reluctantly. 
Therefore  I  think  for  those  in  misery. 

THE:   MUSE. 

Though  no  one  knows  of  all  thy  songs 

And    thoughts — and    fair    creations    mani 
fold— 

'Tis  strange  that  still  thy  spirit  throngs 
To  me — far  from  the  life  of  gold ! 

THE    LONELY    ONE. 

Gain  were  a  shallow  substitute  for  song: 
For,  soon  as  profits  show  they  aye  must  go ; 
But  soon  as  melodies  my  spirit  throng 
They  linger — then  I  make  them  eternal  so! 
O  there  are  those  who  love  their  fineries — 
Who    love    loud    boyish    sport— though    age 

should  change  them; 
Who  look  disdainfully  at  a  poet's  pleasures, 


The    Poet  37 

Deriding  all  of  his  high  imageries ! 
They  may  invoke  the  fates  to  give  them  luck : 
They  lived  a  life  haphazard,  far  from  good ; 
But   when   they   die   they   may   not   asphodel 

pluck 

From  off  the  brow  of  Fame  as  artists  would. 
They  die — whereas  I  know  philosophy, 
The  arts,  live  on  through  all  eternity. 

THE:   MUSE. 

Loud  is  the  city  with  rapt  cries — 
Mock-pyres  flame  within  the  street — 

The  band  plays  popular  melodies — 
Sky-rockets  rise,  and  burst  up  high ; 

But  in  the  crowds  I  do  not  meet 

Thee,  loved  one — thou  art  never  nigh. 

THE:  LONELY  ONE. 

Why  should  I  mingle  with  the  populace 

That  jeers  at  lofty  thought  and  laughs  at 

dreams  ? 
Or  wish  to  vote  for  men  who  will  efface 

The  primal  statutes  in  the  Republic's  book? 
The  parties  are  at  strife — the  factions  look 

Distrustingly  at  all — and,  so  it  seems, 
Our  states  are  principalities  at  best, 

For  unity  is  but  a  myth — a  word ; 

The  parties  quarrel  at  the  point  of  sword — 


38  The    P  oet 

Republicans  hate  democrats ;  and  the  rest 
Of  odd-named  factions  are  at  loggerhead 

With  one  another.    Are  they  all  one  nation? 
"The  States"  belie  their  once  fair  given  epi 
thet. 

"Dis-union"  would  serve  better  nowadays, 
For  their  "campaigning"  is  a  degradation 

To  the  pure  age  of  Jefrersonian  ways! 

I  cannot  quite  believe  the  people's  voice 
Should    rule    the    governor's     or     president's 

choice ; 

But  abstract  names,  such  as  ''integrity," 
"Broad-mindedness,"     "good     heart,"     "high 

aims,"   should  be 

Like  individual  voters :  then  our  land 
Would  be  a  nation  honored,  fair  and  grand. 
But,  as  it  is,  our  politics  are  a  game, 
And  low  at  best — played  by  stout  men  who  aim 
T'  enrich  their  pockets,  while  they  their  land 

defraud 
And  praise  the  Devil  when  they  should  praise 

God. 

We  scorn  our  mother  country  for  her  throne 
When  we  have  tyrant  rulers  in  our  own. 
No  sceptres  carry  they,  nor  golden  crown ; 
But  they  command,  and  tread  the  people  down. 
Tioga's  most  resplendent  son  rules  all; 
The  people  subjects  are — are  held  in  thrall ; 
The  rulers  banquet,  when  the  people's  fare 


T  he     P  o  et  39 

Is  scant,  and  poverty  lurks  everywhere. 
The  olden  reign  it  is,  I  know — and  vain 
It  is  to  preach  Christ's  sermon  high  again. 
For  as  He  was  once  crucified — to-day 
He'd  reap  worse  sentence  and  be  Scorn's  own 
prey! 

The  constitution  for  a  nation's  glory 
Is  written  in  true  Liberty's  fair  story; 
But  such  can  never  be  on  earth — 'tis  given 
To   such   who   feel    and    know  the  ways    of 

Heaven. 

But  as  they  are  so  few,  they  walk  alone 
In  midst  the  ignorant,  selfish  population, 
As  planets  glow  and  roll  in  exaltation; 
Yet,  by  the  multitude  of  stars  around 
They  seem  like  lost.     The  state  ideal  is  shown 
By  rare  unselfishness — is  heavenly  crowned 
By  feelings  all  humane — and  robed  in  white 
By  fair  Simplicitv,  and  soul's  own  light 
Sways  all ;  but  on  this  earth  such  cannot  be, 
Since  most  men  are  possessed  of  Satan  free. 
Low  gain  is  like  a  parasite — and  greed 
Has  smothered  friendship,  love  and  God    in 
deed. 

So,  Muse,  I  would  not  desecrate  thy  name 
That  one,  thine  own,  should  bow  to  theft  and 

shame. 
I  keep  me  noble,  fain  to  serve  my  land 


40  The     P  o  et 

By  song  sublime — and  counsel  fair  and  grand 

A  citizen — not  servile — but  all  vain 

To  be  a  voice  that  God  should  rule  again. 

THE:  MUSK. 

Ah!  many  are  the  stems  of  grain 

That  sway  to  Notus  on  the  plain. 

But,  oh !  how  few  the  azure  flowers 

That  blow  in  midst  those  waving  bowers — 

So  in  the  world:  of  million  men 

That  live  all  earthly,  only  ten 

Have  Christ-like  souls— or  have  the  sight 

Of  God— or  try  to  spread  Truth's  light. 

Hence  may  no  fair  millenium  be 

Till  all  love  soul's  sublimity! 

O  Lonely  One,  since  only  song 

May  keep  thee  cheery,  dost  thou  long 

To  be  at  rest  from  worldly  strife? 

Since  thou  hast  never  found  a  wife 

Because  all  girls  hate  love  and  soul, 

And  only  make  vain  show  their  goal : 

Wouldst  thou  not  better  be  Heaven-flown 

Than  sing  and  work  and  dream  alone? 

Doth  not  the  sand-flower,  lemon  fair, 

Upon   the   foothills  near   the   sea 

By  lone  Del  Mar  wish  dead  to  be? 

For  no  man  comes — nor  through  the  air 

No  eagle  wings  his  glorious  way — 

For  on  the  crumbled  sand  it  blows, 


The     Poet  41 

Forsaken  by  all  other  flowers. 

It  lives  its  solitary  day, 

Unsought  by  bird  or  cooling  showers — 

Yet  of  its  solitude  it  knows, 

As  thou  art  conscious  of  thy  woes. 

THE   LONELY  ONE. 

We  take  strange  fate  as  best  we  may — 

As  best  we  may. 

We  must  suppose  God  made  our  clay 
For  March  and  May, 
For  winter  or  for  fall's  array. 
He  made  me,  as  He  made  the  flower. 
Upon  the  foothills  it  blooms  fair; 
It  serves  something — within  its  hour; 
So  must  I  be  of  use  somewhere. 

That  flower  blows,  though  all  alone — 

Though  all  alone ; 
And  patiently  without  a  moan 
As  though  'twas  shown 
By  unseen  souls  a  radiant  throne. 
It  opens  all  its  petals  at  morn 

And  dazzles  in  the  sun  through  day, 
And  sleeps  through  night,  though  all  forlorn — 
So  will  I  make  my  life  its  way ! 

Why  die  when  yet  the  mind  is  bright — 
The  mind  is  bright: 


42  7'  h  c     Poet 

When  to  my  soul  dreams  bring  me  light, 
For  new  delight 

To  nerve  me  for  a  Heavenly  sight. 
O  Muse,  though  I'm  alone,  unwed. 

Like  a  flower  that  blows  alone,  yet  fair — 
God  made  it.  by  some  purpose  led — 
So  must  I  be  of  use  son:. 

THE    MUSE. 

O  Lonely  One — though  ten  long  years 

Have  gone — and  them  hadst  seen  all  life : 
The  hovel,  palace ;  laughter  and  tears : 

And  though  not  blessed  \vi'  a  loving  wife ; 
Within  thy  soul  thou  art  as  pure 

As  when  we  sang  together  there : 
And  though  temptations  oft  would  lure 

Thee  from  the  poet's  path — by  men 
Of  soul  thou  shalt  be  loved  alway — 

For   thou    hast    kept    Christ-like    the    soul's 
high  Lay ! 

XCK>  York  O'/v. 


T  h  e    P  o  e  t  43 


THE  POET. 

O  listen !  how  the  poet  sings ! 

His  songs  are  Rivers  from  eternal  Springs. 

O  listen  to  the  birds  in  linden-trees — 

How  they  mingle  with  the  humming  of  work- 
loving  Bees ! 

Their  songs  and  hummings  are  from  one  great 
Sound, 

\Yhich  reverberates  thro*  the  Inane's  illimit 
able  Profound. 


POETRY. 

Purple-petaled.  perfect  paragon, 

Purest,  pleading  Poem-! 
Pulsing  peeress,  purfled :  proud  upon 

Proving  poesy  purity! 


ALL  I  WISH  FOR. 

Oh !    All  I  wish  for,  when  I'm  weary-grown, 
Are  the  sweet  poets  of  all  centuries. 
To  read  in  dreamy  mood  the  melodies 

They  wrote  when  they  were  by  sweet  Poesy 
blown 


44 


The    Poet 


On  softest  winds  to  isles,  so  fairy-grown, 
That  conning  them  evoked  fair  purities 
Of  song  and  thought— so  all  their  imageries 

Replenish  my  lorn  mind  that  dwells  alone. 

O  lays  that  lull  the  moody  mind  to  rest, 
And  rune-like  lines  that  chant  of  hero's  hoar. 
Then  thoughts  got  from  fair  Nature's  end 
less  store ; 
And   tunes   taught   them    when    sleeping    on 

Love's  breast. 

So  would  my  weariness  be  spelled  then, 
By  songs  writ  by  those  Heaven-elected  men. 


SONG-FLOOD. 

O  God,  they  say  Poetry  is  genius-gift; 

That  poetry  should  be   prized   supreme   of 
of  Thee. 

Yet  I  write  all  with  such  facility, 
As  tho'  some  Angel  led  my  hand,  to  shift 
Over  the  page  with  lightning   swiftness  on. 

I  fear  me ;  like  the  levin  are  my  songs ; 

The  myriad-minded  to  the  stars  belongs— 
They  gyrate,  act  in  orbits  all  their  own! 


T  he    Poet  45 

How   fleet  my    pen — how    fair   the    pictures 

drawn ! 

A  day  hath  many  visions  for  my  scroll ; 
And  yet  I  live  all-lonely  with  my  soul. 
O  let  me,  singing,  soar  within  thy  Dawn, 
A   lark,    tho'    shot   at  by   the   world's   low 

scorn, 
Arising,  fulgent,  in  Thine  eternal  Morn ! 

YOUR  POET. 

I. 

I  will  be  your  poet! 
But  he  is  a  delicate,  little  thing, 
Who  must  be  treated  well — 
If  you  want  him  ever  to  sing! 
He  must  not  be  a  thing  to  sell — 
But  like  we  treasure 

A   holiday  pleasure, 

So  must  you  think  of  him — and  ward  him  well ! 
For  he  is  a  delicate  little  thing, 

Like  the  butterfly's  radiant  wing. 
So  if  you  treat  him  well- 
Then  I  will  be  your  poet! 

II. 

I  will  be  your  poet ! 
But  he  is  a  tender,  sensitive  child, 
Like  the  Angel  in  mid-heaven — 


46  T  he     P  o  e  t 

And  must  be  ever  pleasingly  beguiled ; 
By  sweetest  impulses  ever  driven. 
You  must  him  be  loving, 

As  him  who  never  needs  reproving. 
So  must  you  see  in  him  a  soul  from  Heaven 

given ! 

For  he  is  a  tender,  sensitive  child — 
Like  the  blushing  rose  in  the  woodland's 

wild. 

So  if  you  think  him  born  of  Heaven — 
Then  I  will  be  your  poet ! 

(1883) 


WHEN  THE  SPIRITS  COME. 

O  when  the  Spirits  come  I  know : 
A  word  bobs  up  before  my  mind ; 

Then  follow  others,  and  they  glow 

With  justest  colors,  but  Heaven  can  find. 

But  there  arises  a  combat  sweet — 

As  Jacob's  with  Gabriel  at  his  feet: 
To  listen  to  those  Spirits,  or  no ; — 

Be  prudish  as  a  blushing  maiden's  bosom ; 
Or  be  soft  lightning,  with  its  glow, 

To  show  to  man  the  thought-flashed  blossom. 

O  when  the  Spirits  come,  I  know  them — 
Like  swift  gold  sparkles  from  the  flowered 
stream, 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  47 

Words  bubble  in  me,  where  they  flow  them — 
Even  as  lily-burdened  waters  flow 
To     meadows,     where     virgins     marjoram 
strow ! 

And  they  are  strains  for  a  Heaven-theme. 

I  struggle  to  believe  they're  showing 

Me  all  that  glitters  in  man's  knowing; 

Till,  like  the  woodrose,  on  the  brooklet's  barm, 

Is    drenched,    and    flows    with    the    streamlet 

warm ! 

So  resistless  is  the  showering  of  their  bless 
ings 

That  momentary  am  I  lost  in  vary  dressings  : 
O  paraments  so  airy — spirit-like — that  I 
Dream  only  of  their  immortality ! 

O  when  the  Spirits  come,  I  know— 
A  word  bobs  up  before  my  mind — 

Then  others  bubble — and  they  glow 

With   colors  their  own,  but   Heaven   could 
find. 


48  T  he    P  o  et 


THE  POET. 

He  is  the  Mouth-piece  of  the  world ; 

The  Nation's  banner  bold  unfurled — 

Waving  in  the  ensilvered  sun. 

Before  creation  was  begun 

Within  the  Godhead's  mind  he  was. 

Precious  he  as  crysoprass ; 

And  rare  as  Kohinoor  of  old — 

A  treasure,  never  to  be  sold. 

For  he  is  one  with  mystery. 

Not  of  the  human  womb  is  he — 

His  birth  is  in  the  spirit's  birth — 

Years  aft'  he  breathed  upon  this  earth. 

Him  guide  the  glorious  Seraphim; 

Those,  whom  the  patriarchs  of  eld 

Of  sudden  in  their  dreams  beheld ; 

And  taught  them  of  great  Elohim. 

He  is  of  cosmic  light — he  wields 

His  virtues  as  the  Angels  shields 

In  the  grim  war  with  Lucifer, 

What  time  th'  angelic  host  did  stir 

The  stars  and  planets  'gainst  the  reign 

Of  Evil.    He  nor  to  the  says 

Of  priest,  nor  to  the  specious  ways 

Of  magnate,  or  of  trade-man  sways — 

He  flouts  their  aims  and  makes  them  vain. 

He  is  the  sturdy  oak  that  views 


The     P  oet  49 

From  craggy  bluff  the  spreading  vale ; 

Him  all  the  loving  spirits  choose 

To  deliver  to  man  God's  mystic  tale — 

For  he  in  sudden  moments  sees 

Deep  thro'  life's  many  mysteries. 

He  labors  not,  but  lightning-thought 

Empowers  him.     No  man  has  taught 

Him  what  in  songs  he  brings  to  bloom — 

His  knowledge  blossoms  out  of  gloom. 

When,  sad  and  sorrowing,  he  dreams 

By  flower,  or  hill-crest  in  the  morn — 

Then  vital  prophesy  fast  streams 

From  his  soul ;  and  thus  his  song  is  born. 

Him  more  the  Spirit's  life  delights— 

But  he  from  casual  man  invites 

Some  mundane  happenings,  to  cull 

From  them  earth-doings ;  then  transmutes 

Them  into  epics  beautiful, 

Or  lyrics,  soft  as  sounds  from  lutes. 

He  to  the  general  world  seems  most 

As  on  a  drowsy  summer-day: 

A  momentary  gale  its  way 

Glides  through  the  trees — whose  boughs  are 

tosst, 

Whose  leaves  a-tremble  are  with  song — 
And  all  the  air  is  cool  as  wave- 
So  he  strows  music  to  the  throng, 
His  magic  words  their  lorn  minds  lave. 
He  walks  the  earth  in  loneliness ; 
A  hermit  in  the  soul's  vast  realm — 


50  T  h  e    P  o  c  t 

A  few  he  finds  that  to  him  confess 
Their  heart-pangs ;  none  will  overwhelm 
Him  with  earth-blessings ;  he  alone 
Walks ;  man  but  gives  to  him  a  stone — 
Yet  when  he's  dead,  the  world  bestows 
On  him  high  honor — such  that  glows. 

(1906) 

TO    THE    MOUNTAIN    BROOKLET. 

What  use   for  amrit,  or  youth's  quintessence 

rare ; 
For   gin,    great    Byron's   guide    to    Fancy's 

nook ; 
When   I   can   write  close  to  thee,  babbling 

brook. 
And  feel  thy  wave's  breath  floating  on  the  air ! 

Why  drink  the  Rhenish  wines,  or  those  of  Cos ; 
Or  those  of  Sicily — of  Marathon — 
When  I  can  relish  thee,  when  I'm  alone — 

And  be  inspired  with  songs  full  glorious ! 

Away  from  sun-exposed  summits  green ; 

By  thee  sweet  words  flow   from  my  fluent 

pen. 

I  drink  thy  cool  wine,  and,  within  the  glen, 
Thy  rush,  thy  babble  and  thy  mutter  between, 
Invite  the  muse  to  me,  and  then  I  deem 
My  work  is  but  a  summer's  pleasant  dream ! 

(1894) 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  51 


CONTRAST. 
(Stephen    Crane — His    Great    Funeral.) 

With  pomp — pall-bearers,   friends  and  stately 

train 

His  funeral  was  held  the  other  day — 
Young,  yet  with  no  great  work,  or  glorious 

lay, 

That  should  deserve  the  laurel,  Stephen  Crane 
Was  buried  as  if  he  were  greater  far 

Than'  Keats,  or  Poe,  or  Otway,  they  whose 

grave 
Was   wreathed  but    long    years    aft'    their 

death,  and  gave 

The  world  sweet  perfect  works,  bright  as  a 
star! 

Such  is  the  world — it  is  so  dull  to  ring 

Loud  praise  to  those  whose  talents  choose 

light  themes — 
But   cannot    find    th'    creators,    they    whose 

dreams 

Are  passports  to  the  spirit's  marvellings — 
Who   of  the    world   had    honored     Schubert 

Poe— 

All  who  wrought  deathless  works  from  strife 
and  woe  ! 

(1900) 


52  T  h  c    P  o  c  t 


POETS. 

It  seems  We  poets  great  are  fettered  strong 

To  dull  humanity.    In  higher  spheres 
We  did  some  strange  all-punishable  wrong, 

And  now  we  roam  alone  'mongst  tears  and 

cheers 
Of  this  world's  common  women  and  their  men. 

Else   why   should   we   have   larger  thought 

than  they — 
And  greater  aptitude — and  fairer  ken— 

And  seek  forever  for  the  higher,  fairer  Day  ? 

Nought  that  fair  Terra's  people  love  we  share, 
Save  love  the  freshness    of  the    fields  and 

woods ; 
But  ever  while  we  roam  discons'late  there 

Our  hearts  are  sore  in  sorrow's  solitudes. 
For  we  are  other  than  the  motley  crowd : 
We   think   of   worlds   ringing    with    anthems 
loud ! 

(1898) 


The    P  oet  53 


THE  POET. 

There  clings  to  poet-souls  a  mystery : 
A  mystery  unknown  to  other  souls ; 
A   strangest   sense,   that   leads   them   on  to 
goals, 

Unsought  by  trade-enslaved  humanity. 

Many   walk    through    the   ruins    of   glorious 

Rome — 
When,  tired,  they  seek  a  place  to  quaff  cool 

wine — 
There   ling'ring — with   a   vacant   stare ;   no 

sign 
That  to  their  minds  come  thoughts  of  love  or 

home. 

But  see !  at  that  small  table  sits  a  poet — 

He     wandered     by     the     walls,     Tiberius- 
wrought — 
And   saw  the   Alps,   and   Plain;   and   Tiber's 

wave. 
He  sits — but  all  his  soul  is  lit,  O,  know  it ! 

With  sudden  images  and  glorious  thought — 
He  writes  there  a  new  song  the  Spirits  gave ! 
Rome,  March  24,  1901. 


54  T  h  e     P  o  e  t 


"  To-day  no  one  writes  lays  divine; 
To  speak  of  love's  affection,  woe — 
Disdain  does  not  from  their  base  lips  flow." 

(Torq.  Tasso  1479) 

SONNET. 

Thou  too,  O  poet,  much  maligned  through  life, 
And  tortured  by  the  little  men,  and  fate — 
Thou  knewest  well  that  most  of  mankind 
hate 

To  dwell  on  love  that  in  the  soul  is  rife. 

But  time  and  mankind  have  not  changed  since 

then- 
Three  hundred  years  ago !    To-day  love  lies 
Enshrouded ;  left  forlorn ;  and  all  men's  eyes 

Stare  fierce  for  paltry  gain  in  town  or  glen. 

Methinks,  when  dreaming  of  thy  carking  woes, 
Torquato,  fair  Sorrento's  genius-child! 
That  minds,  who  dote  on  worldly  transient 

shows, 

Can  never  by  love's  glories  be  beguiled ; 
And  that  'tis  genius  only  that  lives  high 
In  thought  of  Heaven's  Love-Serenity! 

February  16,  1899. 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  55 


JONES    VERY. 

God-reared,  and  Nature-fledged,  thy  soul  up 
rose, 

Like  glorious  sun,  to  light  the  earth's  dark 
air; 

Like  morning-melodies,  thy  songs  are  fair ; 
Like  rocks  along  the  shore,  thou  borest  woes 
Of  life's  resurgent  sea — and  mighty  throes 

Of  soul  and  heart  were  melted  in  the  care 

Thou  feltest  in  this  foul  world  everywhere. 
O  Very,  God-invited ; — manhood's  rose  ! 

Yes,  rose ;  the  fairest  in  man's  garden-thought ! 
Since  Christ  had  forfeited  his  life  for  man, 
No  singer  bloomed  like  thou  on  this  earth's 

span; 
For  thou  hadst  rung  the  God-loved  shell,  so 

frought 

With  hope-songs,  and  that  singing  reverent, 
That  whoso  reads  loves  with  the  God-Head 
to  be  blent ! 


56  T  h  c    P  o  c  t 


GREATNESS. 

Who  knows  the  sun  but  after  it  is  down  ? 
Too  full  of  light,   it  rolled  past  their  dim 

gaze; 
The  dim,  dull  gaze  o'  the  world  in  bustle's 

maze. 
At   morn   they   slept ;   and   saw   not  his   gold 

crown. 

At  noon  they  worried  when  he  silvery  shone. 
At  eve  they  dozed;  and  saw  not  his  gold 

blaze. 
Then   night  came :   and   they   shuddered   in 

amaze 

That  light  and  warmth  with  his  still  death  had 
gone! 

Ah,  me !    So  is  it  with  the  great  in  soul, 
With  poets,  and  all  great  men  striving  on. 
No  one  doth  notice,  as  no  one  the  sun — 
That,  as  the  sun  doth  o'er  the  heavens  roll, 
A  great  light  rilled  the  world  with  truth  and 

song. 

Yet  when  he's  dead,  they  rue  for  all  their 
wrong ! 


The     P  oet  57 


WHO  UNDERSTANDS  HIM? 

O  who  can  understand 
The  poet's  scope — the  poet's  land? 

None  other  but  the  poet; 
For  he  doth  bask  on  Fancy's  strand— 
And  dreams,  holding  Imagination's  hand — 
He  seems  a  god  on  peaks  reclining 
And  looks  on  earth,  her  secrets  deep  divining- 

O  therefore  none  can  know  it 
But  he  who  is  a  poet  wild  and  sweet— 
A  poet  singing  ever  fair  and  meet. 

The  depths,  the  heights, 
He  delves  to  see  the  soul's  great  lights 

None  knoweth  but  the  poet— 
For  others  only  seek  to  find 
The  pleasures  of  the  earthly  mind; 
The  poet  seeks  in  solitude  the  world, 
Where  God's  high  scroll  will  be  unfurled 

And  poets  only  show  it; 
r  when  a  poet  sings,  an  Angel  shows 
Him  all  the  super-world  that  glows. 

O  who  can  feel  the  flow 
Of  thoughts  that  but  the  poets  know  ? 

No  other  man  can  know  it — 
For  when  a  poet  sings  and  dreams 


58  T  h  e    P  o  e  t 

Then  all  this  world  but  vapor  seems — 
And  in  a  land  of  fairest  love  and  glowing 
He  thinks  he  is  where  rarest  tunes  are  flowing, 

And  he  is  but  a  poet — 
Whom  all  the  world  deems  mad,  I  ween — 
Because  the  world  his  fair  thoughts  hath  not 
seen ! 

November  14,  1899. 


THE  POET. 

Within  his  marvel-mind,  and  canorous  clay 
There  dwell  like  two  sweet-loving  essences 
The  delicate  breath  of  flowers'  perfumeries, 

And  strength  of  the  wide,  sturdy  oak  alway ! 

He  hath  the  feelings  of  some  hundred  hearts 
Of  maidens,  all  rare  given  to  sweet  love ; 
And  hath  the   wildness   of    ten   men,    that 
shrove 

For  heinous  crime  in  city's  darkest  parts. 

So  may  he  all  know,  feel,  express,  and  sing ; 

May  curse,  and  love;  perjure;  or  slay  or 
weep, 

For  in  his  being  all  men's  passions  keep 
Their  home — not  running  loose,  or  rioting — 
But  ever  guarded  by  the  God-like  power 
That  fashions  his  song  as  to  a  jewel-flower! 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  59 


GENIUS. 

Thou  art  like  the  unresting  ocean's  deep ! 
E'er  changing  in  thy  moods,  and  hues  of 

mind ! 

^  Now  calm  in  sun,  then  wild  in  Eastern  wind. 
Forever  fluent — refluent — ne'er  asleep ; 
Now    mounting,    then    down-gliding,    in    thy 

tide. 

Thou,  fluid,  never  art  exact,  but  thou 
Dost  change  like  water's  bosom  the  blessed 

one's  brow; 
By  thee  the  ocean's  changes  aye  abide. 

So  ^a  vaunt!  thou  man  who  dost  thyself  repeat; 
Exact  like  chisselled  stone  dost  work  away- 
Dull,  dry  sand-earth  is  all  for  thy  work-day. 

But  fly  to  me,  thou  Genius,  liquid-sweet— 
Reflecting  all  within  thy  fluid-soul  : 

Thou  lone,  great  mind;   Heaven's  realm  thy 
glorious  goal ! 

THE   POET. 

Say  not  the  poet  is  a  useless  man, 
Is  like  the  trill  from  mocking-bird 

And  mars  dull  mankind's  money  plan, 
And  is  not  worth  a  praiseful  word. 


60  .The    P  o  ct 

Say  not  that  he  doth  lead  a  life 
For  from  trade's  wheel-utility— 

Nor  tell  his  hours  with  cant  are  rife— 
Nor  that  his  years  roll  lazily ! 

Ah !  doth  not  he  alone  give  balm 

To  wearied  hearts ;— to  merchant-minds, 

All  aft'  their  toil,  he  giveth  calm- 
So  they're  refreshed,  as  with  soft  winds. 

What  would  the  traders  in  despair 

Do,  had  they  not  some  poet's  lay- 
To  read,  that  braced  them— so  they  dare 
To  live  again  the  next  long  day! 

The  world  of  trade  is  like  a  waste- 
All  sand — and  gray  monotony  ; 

Yet  God  as  He  rare  flowers  placed 
On  earth,  so  with  sweet  Poetry. 

He  let  the  poets  sing  atune 

With  Nature— mankind,  and  the  stars— 
So  know  him  as  your  flower-boon 

Who  sings  to  heal  fate's  smarting  scars ! 

Ah !  wreathe  him  with  rare  laurels  green- 
He  writes  what  Heaven  sings  to  him ; 

His  song  is  what  High  God's  has  been 
Since  Angels  sang:  Our  Eloim. 


The     Poet  61 

Say  not  the  poet  is  a  useless  man — 

Spends  lazy  years  of  dreams  and  song — 

He's  just  as  needful  in  rare  Nature's  plan 
As  men  who  trade  their  life-time  long ! 
October   12,   1894. 


WOMAN-FLOWERS. 

We  poets  are  like  honey-seeking  bees. 

What  numbers,  all-untold,  of  flowers 
They  sip,  to  find  gold-sweetnesses. 

On  plain,  on  field,  in  woodland-bowers ! 
So  must  we  strangely-minded  mortals  live 
To  find  new  song  that  flower-women  give. 

Yet,  though  the  many  deem  us  strange, 

WTe  have  our  honey-hives  well  stored ; 
And  like  the  bees  that  in  their  grange 

Live  in  sweet  honey,  songs  afford 
To  us  sweet  thought  on  lonely  days ;  so  we 
Pass  thro'  the  years  in  tender  melody ! 

No  time  is  squandered ;  for  we  breathe 

To  s'ing,  which  is  for  our  delight. 
When  we  find  flowers,  for  them  we  wreathe 

Song-chains,  so  honey-sweet,  and  bright. 
Ah,  me!  as  bees  sip  mel  in  wood's  recess, 
We  poets  find  songs  in  woman's  loveliness. 


62  T  he    P  o  e  t 


TO  MY  MUSE. 

Thou   Muse!  art  first  of  all  my  wild,   sweet 
powers. 

Neglect  of  thee  shall  never  soil  my  day. 

But  thee  I  worship  first :  I  sing  my  lay 
Sweet  votive  to  thy  inspiration's  showers, 
Before  I  court  gay  Pao  with  her  flowers. 

For  thou  dost  come  to  me,  sweet,  there  to 
stay 

But  for  short  moments ;  so,  with  no  delay, 
I  write  what  in  me  sings:  thy  kindest  dowers. 

Sweet  pictures  have  their  life  all-tangible; 
But  songs  and  thoughts  burst  but  within  the 

soul: 

And  are  mysterious ;  aye !  they  in  me  roll 
As  breakers  glorious,  born  by  hidden  spell. 
So  will  I  ne'er  forego  thy  whispers  rare ; 
But  first  list  to  my  soul's  tunes,  past  com 
pare ! 


GOD  IS  SPIRIT. 

How  most  are  sore  misled  by  pope  and  priest 
To  think  that  God  hath  arms  and  feet  and 

eyes- 
He  is  the  Spirit,  live  on  land,  in  skies — 


The    Poet  63 

And  matter  is  made  of  motion,  at  least. 

Our  bodies  are  the  shells  of  soul's  rare  life — 
God  is  in  all  that  have  a  thought  in  them — 
God's  works  are  wrought  from  out  His  Ana- 
dem 

Of  Light  and  Spirit,  with  fair  Wisdom  rife ! 

All  works  of  man  are  first  evolved  in  thought, 
And  afterwards  his  hands  transfer  them  fast 
To  visible,  material  forms,  to  last ! 

The  more  of  spirit  in  a  man,  and  caught 

At  moments  when  the  Angel  whispers  low — 
The  greater  is  man's  work — heir  of  God's 
glow ! 


THE  MUSE  WILL  WHISPER  SOON  AGAIN. 

There  is  a  lull  come  to  my  lucid  singing 

As  when  on  rocky  shores  the  splashes  cease 
And  silence  broods !     But  sounds  will  soon 

increase, 

Till  like  a  vale  where  village  maids  are  bring 
ing 

Their  flowery  tribute  to  May's  fair  upspringing 
Oh !  all  the  vale  is  tremulous  with  song 
And    laughter     rises    from     the     gladsome 

throng — 
While  all  the  air  with  joyous  din  is  ringing. 


64  T  he    P  o  et 

There  is  a  something  that  directs  us  dreamers 

In  art,  in  poesy  or  in  music'  hours ! 
Last  week  'twas  Pao  flaunted  her  pied  stream 
ers 

That  made  my  brushes  show  my  painting- 
powers. 

So  will  this  lull  in  singing  soon  be  broken — 
And  I  from  Fancy  get  her  sweetest  token ! 
*     *     *     *     -jf. 

With  extasy  I  think  of  the  fate-tended  days 

To  come ! 
The  days  that  wait  for  me — 

(In    the    long,    broad-hollow    chain    of 
'  Time!) 

In  whose  green  brilliancy 
My  Muse's  silver-bells  will  chime : 
In  greener  groves — on  blossomier  fields — on 
nearer  ways 

To  my  tomb! 

*         #         *         sjs         * 

And  I  have  borne  the  cold 
Way  in  my  heart's  deep  cavern — where 
It  froze  my  love — and  made  it  bare — 

A  mystery  as  fold ! 

And  my  weird  soul  had  felt 
The  whiffs,  that  waved  from  forth  my  heart; 
It  felt — as  when  our  dear  ones  part — 

We  know  not  where  they  dwelt ! ! 


The  P  oet          65 


A  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE. 

Tu  as  vu  de  vaste  fantomes  entottrant  ton  ame. 
Au  soir;  et  dans  la  nuit,    quand    le    silence 

reigne. 
Au  bords  des  fleuves  bosques ;  en  parcourant  la 

plaine. 
Dans  les  villes  peuplees  ton  coeur  sentait  la 

flamme 

De  1'amour  pure,  du  luxure.    Dans  tes  rimes, 
Qui  coulent  comme  les  cataractes  au  clair  de 

lune, 

Ta  vision  surhumaine  chantait  de  la  brune 
Deesse  Beaute,  reine  des  cieux  et  des  abimes ! 

O  Baudelaire!  tu  m'as  ete  inconnu  toujours; 
Ce  n'est  qu'  aujourd'hui  que  j'ai  lu  tes  "Fleurs 

du  Mai." 

Ton  chant  sonore  m'a  ebloui  1'esprit  dormeur. 
O  beau  poete,  seul  dans  la  France  des  an- 

ciens   jours. 
J'aime  les  pensees  qui  hors  de  ton  orgue  royal 
S'ecoulent    en    harmonic     plein     d'une    triste 

douleur! 

(1907) 


66  T  he    Poet 

ELEGY. 

O  is  the  world  now  lichened  grey  with  sin! 
Hath  pomp  enslaved  its  rural  beauties  all! 
Hath  gold  and  silver  won  a  timid  thrall ; 
And  filled  the  fields  of  earth  with  tumid  din ! 
O  hath  the  eye  of  kith,  an  eye  for  kin— 
Or  doth  a  name  serve  for  true  valor's  call — 
Or  struts  the  /  in  money-shelved  hall; 
Nor  sees,  nor  feels,  nor  hears,  what  earth  had 

been 
When  innocence  blushed  peach-like;  when 

fond  love 

Was  sovran  in  the  heart  of  sturdy  man! 
When  natural  liberty  did  fondly  prove 
That  God  abounds   in  goodness;  when  their 

sparkling  eyes 
Were  gladdened  with  the  sight  of  fluttering 

dove; 

And  loved  to  praise  the  land  and  radiant  skies? 

(1883) 


The  pleasant  pain  of  deep  meditation ! 
Felt  o'er  the  bending,  bony  brow- 
In  the  tear-wooing  eyes ! 
The  ache  of  poet's  excitation! 

When  he  dreams  there  in  skies, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  ask :  "O,  how !" 


The     P  o  et  67 

OUR   SOUL. 

Our  soul  is  like  the  perfume  of  the  flower — 

That  wafts  away,  when  withered  lie 
The  petals,  the  sapless  stem  and  petiole. 

Our  soul  is  like  the  sounds  of  harmony 

That,  when  the  salt-waves  shoreward  roll, 
Melt    in    the    far,    far    west — where    shadows 
cower ! 


O  Marvel,  O  Wonder! 
As  are  invisible  the  joyouces  of  our  soul — 
So  art  Thou,  O  Everlasting  Benefactor,  God! 

O  God !  who  knoweth  Thee ! 
Not  he  who  wills  all  done  to  his  vain  brain — 
Nor  he  who  deems  all  wrought  from  mortal 

powers — 

But  he  who  feels  his  soul  soft-cooled  in  bless 
ing  rain — 

Who  deems  himself  Thy  child  at  all  of  earth 
ly  hours. 

As  are  invisible  the  joyances  of  our  soul — 
So  art  Thou,  O  God !  Creator,  Friend  and  All ! 
O  Marvel!  0  Wonder! 


68  T  he    P  oet 

THE   SOUL. 

It  doth  beset  me :  the  eternal  truth. 

My  soul  is  one  with  the  huge  Cosmos. 
I  see  it  soar — it  is  eternal  youth— 

I  pant,  expire — but  my  soul  is  soaring! 
'Tis  real — I've  tasted  of  th'  eternal  soul— 

I've  felt  its  wing  upon  my  daily  musing— 
And  though  the  towers  ring — the  spires  toll, 

I'm  gazing  on  you,  with  my  joying  Spirit. 

It  doth  beset  me,  oh !  the  rapturous  joy : 

My  soul  is  mingled  with  the  eternal  Allah — 
I  see  it  in  its  essence — no  annoy— 

I    breathe;    I'm    cold — but    ever    soars    my 

Spirit. 
O  I  have  felt  the  Spirit  touch  my  thinking— 

O  I  have  watched  it  coming  while  I  dreamed 
O  laugh,  my  soul !  they  think  all  is  hard  mat 
ter- 
But    thou    art    what   thou    never   yet   hadst 

seemed — 

'Tis  real :  I've  tasted  of  the  cosmic  thrill- 
Good  bye,  you  proud  ones !  O  my  conscience's 

still— 

My  soul  is  mingled  with  the  lasting  Allah ! 
.   *     #     *     *     # 

And  I  have  felt  the  chill 
Of  this  world'  burthened  mystery 
Deep  in  my  bones ! — and  cooling  me, 

Like  a  cool  midnight-rill ! 


T  he     P  o  et  69 


LIFE. 

Life  is  a  choice 
Between  the  outer  and  the  inner  voice. 

Life  is  a  cheat — 
The  unseen  is  the  real — the  seen  will  fleet ! 


FIRE. 

O  divinest  Fire ! 
Like  ever  uprising  desire, 
Through  thee  we  do  regain 

Our  powers ! 
As  earth  blooms  fair  in  rain  : 

Heaven's  fruiting  showers ! 

When  chilled  we  be,  as  is  the  snow-drop  in  the 
swift  March-wind, 

Thou   permeating  subtlety!   through   thee   we 
e'er  refind 

What  makes  us  breathe  and  move;  as  to  the 
mellow  airs 

That  May,  O  radiant  child!  as  her  spell-gar 
ment  wears: 

To  enfold  the  thousand  buds  and  blooms ; 
To  flower  all  the  sods  of  all  earth's  tombs  ! 


70  T  h  e     P  o  e  t 

As  mystified  as  the  moon  must  be 

When  she  sees  her  proud  Dame  erubesce  and 

glow 

And  ring  her  involving  circles  with  delight: 
Now  dipping  in  gloaming — then  uprising  from 

night — 

So  a  mystery  will  envelope  my  awe 
When,  through  the  fire's  live  candescence  a  law 
Evolves — uplooming  at  last  to  a  living  Essence 
O  gloriously  showing  an  ever-rekindling  Pres 
ence  ! 

O  divinest  Fire — 
Like  man's  ever  changing  desire ! 


THE  ANGELS  WILL  WHISPER  AGAIN. 

I  begged  the  Angels  ring  their  flower-bells— 
With  flower-songs  to  fill  my  musing  soul! 

I  prayed  to  let  me  write  what  Heaven  tells— 
Sweet-tune  to  lays  divine  our  dumb,  dark 
goal. 

O  Angels,  now  I  know  why  you  have  left  me 
To  let  me  live  with  no  song's  golden  fruit 
age — 

O  now  methinks  to  feel  why  you've  bereft  me 
Of  fair  harmonious  flow,  and  lulling  lutage ! 


The     P  oet  71 

The   moon   pitched   down   the   Western   wavy 

deep — 

The  moon  hung  high  above  the  evening-star  ; 
The  moon  rose  'baft  the  Eastern  ebon  steep — 
The  moon  forsook  the  world  and  wandered 
far! 

One  moon  and  more  ago,  the  Angels  richly 

filled  me 
With  Wisdom ;  whispered  me  with  lightning 

verbiage — 
They   flashed,   through  soul   and   heart,   stern 

words  that  thrilled  me — 
As    sad    wind,   moving   through    the    river- 
cooled  herbage ! 

But  lo !  their  language  lost  the  balm  that  quick 
ens, 
Methought  no  more  that  they  had  chosen 

me; 
But  lo !  the  days,  when  sorrow  our  thinking 

sickens — 

Have  caved   songs  virile   strength  and  ex- 
tasy! 

A  potency  more  magical  than  magian's,  • 

Must  bring   its   wand   before  mine   endless 

dreaming — 
To  fast  conjure  those  heavenly-gifted  legions 
That    like    the    vaster    Djinns    have    their 
strange  seeming! 


72,  The    Poet 

Then   will   my   song   sweet-harp   those   olden 

days — 
My  sparkling  plectrum  strike  the  long-sung 

tunes — 

And  through  the^even,  when  the  virgin  prays, 
The  wind  will  herald  them  as  blessing  boons ! 

The  moon  must  wander  past  the  unknown  sun- 
star— 

The   moon   must   cozen   the   curious   orient 
wise-men —  , 

The   moon   must   glow,   and    fatten   by   eves 

throne-star— 

The   moon   must   redden,   ere   cleaving   the 
eastern-skies  wan ! 

One  moon  and  more  shall  see  the  words  that 

take 
Their  hues  from  wolds  and  vales  of  Fara- 

dise— 

And  from  the  gold  empyrian  Cherubs  wake : 
To  glory  knowledge,  for  the  coming  Skies ! 

Angels,  now  I  bid  no  quick  return  of  singing- 
Yet  in  me  are  the  truths,  like  rivers  min 
gling  ; 

Angels,  each  new  day  rich  thoughts  are  sooth 
says  bringing— 

In  trust  my  all   from   rapture-pulse  is  tin 
gling!  (1883) 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  73 


SONG. 

Why  shed  a  gloom  upon  thy  heaven's  soul 

Because  no  mortal  lauds  thy  soothing  song- 
Be  satisfied  that  when  thy  earthly  goal 

Be  reached — thy  works  will  aye  keep  fair 
and  strong; 

For  thou  art  crowned ! 
The  Spirits  owned 

Thy  mind  thro'  youth's  and  manhood's  hours— 
At  death  thou  reapest  Glory's  radiant  dowers. 

The  Angels  wreathed  with  fadeless  asphodel 

Thy  poet-brow  these  years  of  solitude 

Care  not  if  jealous  pens  foreswore  to  tell 
The  world  that  thou  with  wisdom  wast  im 
bued; 

For  thou  wast  crowned 
In  youth,  when  Spirits  owned 
Thy  mind   and  filled   it   fair  with   melodious 

thought — 
Be  glad !  thou  hast  the  fond  acclaim  of  God. 

Why  shed  a  tear  within  thy  glorious  soul, 
Because  none  read  thy  songs  from  Heaven 
blown  ? 


74 


The     Poet 


Be  happy  that  no  one  can  change  thy  goal — 
That  ushers    thee   to    worlds    with    glory 
strown. 

For  thou  art  crowned ! 
The  Spirits  owned 

Thy  poet  soul  since  first  thy  song  was  born. 
Sing  joy!  at  death  thou'lt  hail  God's  wondrous 
Morn! 

March,  1907. 


WHY. 

Why  madest  thou,  O  God! 

The  poet,  filled  with  beauty  rare, 
But  never  gavest  him 
A  woman  fairest-fair? 
Must  songs  be  like  the  rainbow's  life 

That  lives  but  after  storm  and  rain  ? 

Ah !  poet  never  wrote  his  sweetest  strain 
But  after  loss  in  love  or  strife ! 

For  harshly  treated  he 

By  women  voluptuous  and  fine. 

My  fairest  lays  but  show 

Their  lovelinesses  all  divine. 

But  they  will  never  love  me  true. 

They  shun  my  ways  forevermore. 
Ah !  is  my  life  sad  matin-dew 

Along  a  flowerless,  desolate  shore? 


T  h  e    P  o  e  t  75 

Why  madest  them,  O  God ! 

The  poet,  thrilled  by  all  that's  fair. 
Yet  beauty  rarely  glows 

Near  him;  no  woman  is  there! 
Must  poets  be  like  summer's  glow, 

That  comes  but  after  showery  hours  ? 
Ah !  poet  ever  wrote  from  deepest  woe, 

From    tears   wove    chains     of     immortal 
flowers ! 

(1893) 


ELEGIAC  POEMS 


T  he     P  o  et 


VICTOR—A  FRAGMENT. 
(Laurel  Hill,  1885.) 

O  Victor  !  —  How  that  name  doth  pour  a  flood 
Of  thoughts,  and  reveries!  —  a  stream  of  joy  — 
A  sense  of  melancholy,  and  a  mood 
Of  awe  impressing  deep  in  me  its  bane. 
For  thou  art  gone  !    Dead  !  .  .  dead  !  .  .  and  dead 
Is  being  lost  to  our  eye  ;  dead  :  it  withholds 
From  us  the  joy  to  press  thy  hand—  to  gaze 
Upon   thee—  dead  !  .  .  and    what   may   blow   to 

breathe 

Thy  life  again!  —  Oh!  unintelligible  Death!! 
Here,  here  I  ask  of  Thee  divulge  Thy  sooth- 
Unveil  Thy  mystery  .  .  but  on  the  bland  breeze 

blows  ; 

And  not  a  revelation  whispers  here— 
Nor  sings  the  tune-grown  sway  of  wandering 

air 

A  lore  that  once  Thy  might  had  swelled  within 
The  breast  of  him,  who  knew  Thee,  far  in  days 
When  Eden  was  garlanded  to  glow  and  glad 

den  ! 

Thou  gone!  and  all  the  season  liveth  on!^ 
The  oaks  sprout  forth  their  leaves  —  and  pines 
Outspread  their  harping  arms;  all  lives- 
Outlives  the  dead  !    Alone  thou  mayest  not 


T  h  e    P  o  e  t  79 

Be  here  ! — gone  ;  gone  forever  !  .  .  History 
Builds   its  towers   indestructible — and  fills 
The  earth  with  lay  and  sermon — but  the  dead 
Are   lost!   and  their   speech  murmurs   no,   no 

more! 

High  art  proclaims  yet  proudest  workmanship ; 
Hath     audible     answer     to     the     questioning 

tongues ; 

And  states  uprise — and  roar  their  revolutions ; 
But  not  a  voice  doth  syllable  thy  name — 
Forgotten !  dead ! — and  who  knew  that  there 

lived 

Such  tender  youth  as  thou !  untimely  lost ! 
Oh,  terrible  catastrophe  in  mind's  confines : 
To   delve   Death's   mystery — when,   bound   on 

bound, 

Repelling  rocks  are  hurled  against  the  too 
Inquisitive    interrogator  ! — Dead  ! 
And  here  I  sit — and  muse  of  thee,  O  Brother ! 
Here,  where  we  twain  enjoyed  the  hours,  we 

played, 

And  spake  in  accents,  child  is  wont  to  prate 
Exulting  in  the  arms  of  Nature !     Thou 
Whose  fate  ordained  a  grave  in  youth's  sweet 

prime — 

Art  thou  beholding  me — and  sheddest  thou 
A  tear  that  thy  lone  brother  yet  hath  life 
Upon  this  sphere  ; — or  hast  thou  Angel-power  ! 
And  hoverest  o'er  me,  fain  dictating  me, 
As  on  my  words  gush  all  the  swell  of  thought 


go  The    Poet 

That  thou  and  thy  demise  evoke! .  .  O  Spirit! 
Tell,  tell,  what  lashes  all  my  soul,  to  see  the 

face 

Of  Death !  to  join  hands— and  to  feel  the  thrill 
Of  D'eatlrs  embrace! 

And  this  the  month  that  saw 
Thee  ope  thine  eyes  unto  strange  scenes — when 

dark 
Of   womb   had   brightened,   and   the   light   of 

Nature's  all 

Pervaded  thy  whole  being !  These  the  lawns, 
And  orchards;  groves  and  hills,  that  felt  thy 

feet— 

So  wayward,  fleet  as  bound  the  kids  o'er  their 
Sweet   quiet!     These  the  warbles;  these  the 

breezes. 

The  airs  that  warm ;  the  innumerable  sounds, 
And  heavings  of  a  myriad-motioned  Nature ! 
Are  these  the  same  that  inspired  thee  with  life, 
That  tendered  tokens  of  friendship  while  a  boy, 
And  loved  thee — as  I  loved  thee,  when  the  soul 
Yet   shrouded   gleams   in   childhood's   fondest 

dreams ! 

Here  in  this  arbor  we  wished  what  no  one  hath. 
We  thought  of  things  that  never  shape  have 

taken — 
Rapt   dreams   of  boys! — We    shouted   to   the 

hills ; 


The    Poet  81 

Heard  the  soft  buzzing  of  the  bee,  that  rested 
Within  the  vines,  that  clung  t'  the  rustic  bower : 
Verbena-tangled,  with  suckles  blooming  sweet, 
Where,  libant,  the  darning-needle  passed,  then 

flitted 

To  dales  of  fairer  mel.     We  heard  the  wren 
That   carolled   through  the  blooming  cherry- 
trees  ; 

To  thrushes,  and  the  lark,  that  flooded  throngs 
Of  tunes  upon  the  greenest  lawn — and  here 
We   garlanded   fair    flowers,    to    deck    some 

cousin, 

Maid-waiting  'neath  yon  pine-grove ;  eager, 
Sweet  innocence  in  her  reposed  shape. 
Unfolded  bud !  and  ran  we  through  the  aisles 
Of  cedars — with  their  spicy  scents,  and  tunes, 
Mating  our  hearts  to  thrilled  joyance ; — ran 
To  yon  quaint  tower,  that  standeth  master-like, 
Supervisor  of  the  park — and  lofty  head 
To  scan  the  prospect  wide,  and  far  withdrawn ! 
O^may  mine  eyes  see  thee  again,  wild  youth! 
Disporting,    as    antelope,    through    these    fair 

grounds. 
With  brother's  endearment  whispering  me  the 

snares 
To    surprise    the    hare — to    tame    the    captive 

hawk — 

And  shun  the  dangers,  brooding  in  the  darker 
dens 


82  T  he    P  o  e  t 

Of  Nature!     Were  we  young! — and  ten  long 
years 

Have  sung  their  various  lays  to  me ;  ten  years 

Wherein  my  mind  bloomed ;  and  the  sense  of 
man 

Upswelled   its   wave — to  flood  my   soul   with 
gifts 

Such  the  sterner  mortal  nurtures  through  a 
life! 

And  thou,  when  boyhood  bears  adventurous 
fruit 

Hadst   said  a  long  farewell!   thou   wert   em 
balmed 

In  Death's  weird  fold,  when  yet  the  brow  is 
smooth, 

And  cheeks  are  round,  eyes  glisten  brightest 
rays: 

Diaphanous   like   the   sun's,   that   shoot   from 
forth 

Some  crowned,  pellucid  gem!     Oh,  then  we 
knew 

No  voice   that   floweth   as   the   mountain-tor 
rent — 

No  heart-throbs,  beating  as  wings  of   dying- 
swans. 

No  rancorous  moans,  that  quell  not  when  the 
glow 

Of  Orient  splendor  invests  the  dreary  day — 

No   deeper   thought    dipped    golden    buckets 
down 


T  he     P  o  et  83 

Than  but  the  dreams  of  wildest  joy ; — and  pas 
sion 

Lay,  as  the  sky  upon  a  lake,  where  round 
No  breath  is  heard,  nor  liveth  aught  to  shed 
A  dimpling  rain,  that  ruffles  its  glassy  calm ! 
Oh,  then  to  me  the  wisdom  of  those  peers 
In  poetry's  skies  was  all  unknown; — the  thrill 
Of  meditation  all  unfelt ; — the  sense  to  know 
Unlit ; — the  wild  enthusing  thoughts  of  sex 
Yet  hidden  brooded ; — and  life's  secret  was 
Yet  sealed!     Nor  frothed  within  me  that  in 
tense 

Upheaving  to  delve  the  mysteries  of  man — 
To  mattock  the  interminable  mines  of  soul — 
Nor  arm  against  world's  wrongs — nor  seem 

to  be 

One  lonely  heart  that  weighed  the  sufferings 
And  weals  of  all  my  fellow-mates ;  but  then, 
I  was,  like  thou,  a  boy  and  Nature-loving ;  lost 
In  childhood's  fancy-fields;  and  guided  true 
To  reason  by  that  Hand,  that  blesses  thee  now ! 
Thou  hast  been  spared  to  know  what  all  these 

ten 

Fat  years  have  taught  me !    Dead  thou  art, 
These  long  years !     Furnished  not  with  wiser 

brain — 
Ta'en  away  from  here,  before  the  thoughts  o' 

the  Past 

Could  store  thy  mind !    Dead — with  no  Knowl 
edge  Vast; 


84  The    P  o  et 

Experience  born  with  years  ; — no  joy  profound 
Of  self-ebullient  thought — of  own  creations  ; 
Nor  what  love  breedeth ;  nor  with  that  proud 

badge : 

A  name ! — O  brother !  who  dost  sing  of  Glory, 
Thy  heart  had  felt  pulsations  of  a  Hand 
That  teaches  one  short  lesson,  serving  for 
The  vastness  of  the  myriad  lesson-books 
That  lie  wild  scattered  through  and  in  great 

nature. 

To  know  the  flower  grows — to  see  it  die — 
To  feel  its  leaves — to  marvel  at  its  structure — 
To  own  within  that  what  is  there  is  made 
By  One  All-Mighty  Hand — is  all  we  need 
To  know ;  for  all  else  is  but  the  all-same — 
Each  one  for  one  lone  mind — and  all  for 

thought 
Of  nations,  tribes,  and  clans,  and  families ! 

Doth  the  balmy  air  of  Spring  suggest  the  days 
When  we  were  sporting!  lively  as  the  lark 
That  shot  the  blue — and  frisksome  as  the  fawn 
That   bound    its   vernal   joy   o'er   branch   and 

brier, 
And  woodland  flowers  !     O  Victor !  Brother ! 

Thou, 
Who  wept'st  young  tears  at  some  rude  words. 

of  mine, 

Hadst  clasped  thy  delicate  hands,  to  ask  of  me 
Obedience  to  thine  Angel-voice — when  I, 


T  he     P  oet  85 

Thy  younger  mate,  had  shunned  to  walk  on 

ways 
The  good  man  takes !     O  Thou  hadst  in  thy 

heart 

That  sweeter  blood,  the  Heaven-blessed  own — 
That  tender   sweetness   round   thy   lips — that, 

sad, 
And  weeping  through  thine  eyes,  was  language 

still 
To   mark  thee   one   of   those,    who    gaze    at 

Heaven 
Ere     Heaven    to     others    is    disclosed;    oh, 

Brother ! 
Thou  wert  too  good,  too  kind,  too  sensitive 

far 

To  lead  the  life  the  older  live ;  breathe  days 
When   retrospection  addles  brain,   contempla 
tion 
On    the    world,     its    miseries,     consume     our 

thought — 

And  we,  the  blest,  weep  silently  a  tear 
That  purls  within  ourselves — a  tear  to  be 
The  seed  we  sow  in  Heaven's  Homes,  when 

there 
We  see  it  sprout  to  Blessings  manifold — the 

dear 
And  deep,  true  recompense  for  having  wept  for 

those 
Whom  we  could  help  not ! 

Ten  years !  and  with 


86  The    Poet 

Their  changing  hues,  the  days  saw  me  in  towns 
Of  strange  names,  where  thy  foot  had  never 

trod — 
I  heard  men  speak  in  foreign  tongues — have 

answered 

Them  ;  fared  on  seas  ;  and  mated  with  the  boors 
Of  lands  thou  hadst  not  known;  I  learned  the 

thought 
Of  men,  whose  names  n'er  touched  thine  ear; 

have  pursued 

The  jacal  on  the  cliffs  of  Jura's  ranges — slayn 
The   boar    by  brakes     where    Moritz    wildly 

roamed ; 
Have    mused    of    stars — have    seen    the    Bear 

move  round 

That  lode-star,  centre  of  the  unknown  realm  ! 
Knew  how  to  point  at  lost  Egeria — to  those 
Proud  planets,  said  to  be  our  sister-worlds ! 

[Till   here   written   in   the   open  air,    Laurel  Hill,    1885.] 

[What  follows  is  continuation;   written  from  2  A.   M. — • 

5  A.   M.,  during  the  night.] 

My  vaster  mind  could  astound  at  the  Unseen ! 
What   wond'rous  boundless   space  outreached 

the  realm 

The  sage  astronomers  call  universe ! 
Ten  long  years !  in  their  full  flood  of  various 

motions 
I  learned  God's  Lesson,  imprinted  on  a  brow — 


T  he     P  oet  87 

That    impossible    Lesson?    learned    by    one's 

self; 
That  imbibes,  from  love-pores,  all  the  natural 

eye 

Beholds  ; — imperishable — vast  and  complex — 
That  mighty  Lesson,  stamped  on  the  human 

brow, 

Till,  flashing  round  his  temples,  as  the  glow 
Of  Heaven  opens  sudden,  suffusing  light 
And  an  unspeakable  sheen  around — that  Les 
son 

Bursts  welded  to  the  kiss  of  God  !  .  .  And  such 
One  eve,  while  dreaming  of  a  love,  my  brow 
Experienced — since,  I  walk  the  earth,  as  none 
Would  dare — a  child  of  Him ;  with  knowing 

right 
To    love    who    showed    Himself    in    ineffable 

sheen ! 

I  felt  the  Spirit  dawn  upon  me — and,  at  once, 
The  mysteries  were  revealed.    I  needed  naught 
To  ask  of  man.     The  Father  of  the  man 
Had  flashed  before  me  ...  Once  a  bliss,  un 
known 
To  those  who  walk  their  path  with  naught  but 

staff- 

Who  know  of  body  only — once  a  bliss, 
A  joy  supreme  begot  itself  in  me : 
Not  in  my  thinking — but,  effulgent,  burst 
Without  my  soul ;  and  laved  the  sentient  parts 
Of  my  frame — then  it  was  I  felt  that  we 


88  The     P  o  et 

Were  not  the  children  of  a  man  and  woman— 
But  were  in  friendship  with  a  higher  Light! 
Each  one  stood  bare  before  a  vaster  Throne! 
And  each  should  give  account  to  One,  who 

thought 

It  wisest,  when  Him  listed,  to  imbue  a  soul 
With  Spirit !  or  impart  to  him  a  knowledge 
That  He  alone  could  give! 

And  hast  thou  felt 
Such    bliss    supreme !    when    fifteen    frettings 

played 

With  thee !  when  yet  the  sense  of  theosophy 
Is  as  the  leaf  of  some  fruit-branch — when  yet 
The  learned  brain  naught  originates,  but  thinks 
In   trains   of   thought   like   those   that    it   was 

taught. 
Oh,  but  such   is  not  known — perchance  such 

bliss 

Was  thine — but,  like  a  secret,  kept  it  locked 
For  none  to  dream  of  having  been. 

Those  years 

Have  taught  me  the  rich  sciences — the  store 
Of  wisdom  kept  for  aye  in  poet-works — 
Works    given    them    by   powers    of    the    vast 

Power ! 

As  foams  the  brook  when  rocks  are  lying  loose 
About  the  bed,  so  foamed  my  feeling  'gainst 

the  say 


T  he     P  o  e  t  89 

Of  those  that  flung  the  soul  to  nothingness. 

Spurned  by  invisible  angels,  at  once,  I  thought : 

To  enlighten  their  deep  darkness ;  and  suc 
ceeded. 

For,  during  that  long  conflict,  I  worked  with 
self— 

With  study  of  myself — with  abstract  dream, 

With  contemplation  calm,  and  self-applied ! 

At  length  my  victorious  pen  pronounced  me 


man 


Of  soul — and  body!    Thus  by  will  mine  own, 
(If  though  it  was  His!)  by  a  knowledge  deep 
Acquired  by  mine  own  dispatch — and  being 
Of  reverent  mind  about  myself — without 
Man's  teaching — I  battled  'gainst  the  blinded 

brain : 
And  took  the  laurel,  which  an  Angel  wreathed! 


In  midst  of  hundred  minds  that  warred   for 

fame, 
To   tell   the   truth — I   broke   my   glaive  ; — and 

fought — 
Fought  with  their  minds !  till  in  my  mind  the 

war 

Assumed  an  ant-hill,  trodden  by  vulture's  claw  ! 
Age    crowned    my    young,    weak    brow — and 

sapiency 

Swelled  in  my  long  untutored  brain — I  was! 
In  youth  I  knew  the  minds  of  those  who  lived 


90  T  he     Poet 

Their  lives  to  think,  collect  their   facts — and 

judge 

From  lists  of  testimonies  aggrandized ! 
Thus  full  equipped,  I  warred — and  won;  for 

all 

They  said  in  sneers,  were  to  my  trophies  true 
The  tests  of  truth  ; — exultingly  I  cried ! 
And  when  suspicions  rose — I  traced  them  back 
To    earth's   beginning,    saw    a   Thought — and 

praised ! 
Thus  thought — and  praise — and  love    (which 

out  of  both 
Breeds   naturally)    were   the  three   stars   that 

shone 

To  light  my  life !  were  the  three  duties  for 
A  mind's  life,  the  three  glories,  that  a  soul 
Could  show  before  the  Heaven ! 

And  thou,  my  Brother ! 
At  thy  tender  stage  of  breath  hast  not  known 

such ! 
Perchance  thou  didst — yet  timid  at  display. 

And  through  those  long-drawn  seasons  I  had 

grasped 

The  nation's  faint  conceptions  of  a  God ! 
Of  wonder-men  in  all  parts  of  the  globe, 
Till  culminating  in  our  Jesus — sole 
Great  man,  whom  God  endowed  with  His  true 

Light— 


The    Poet  91 

By  his  life-fellows  crowned  the  Christ !     He 

was 

The  meek  law-giver ;  He  was  God's  sweet  way 
To   guide    His    flock,    far-fleeing ; — though   a 

Jew — 

Like  Buddha,  though  an  Indian,  both  were  im 
bued 
With  Wisdom    such    that    God  doth    dower ! 

How  kind 

Of  God :  in  lowly  minds  He  sheds  His  Law 
And  Prophesy ;  and  if  in  thunder-voice 
He  tells  His  creatures  He  is  there — -in  sott, 
Subdued,  and  tender  prophesies  He  wards 
His  nations  to  desist  from  wrong !  Oh  !  praise ! 
Oh !   love   that   Godhead — Father,    Mind   and 

Spirit ! 

For  He  did  all :  the  carol  of  a  morning-bird, 
The  meekness,  surety  of  an  endless  Christ. 

(Written  in  1885.) 


UNE  QUESTION. 

Des  morts  humaines  laquelle  est  la  plus  belle: 
De  Tenfant  tendre,  cueillant  les  fleurs  de  mai ; 
De  la  vierge,  songeant  a  son  fiance; 

De  Tage,  qui  marche  dans  le  frimas  dur? 
Je  pense,  que  comme  le  papillon  si  gai, 
Qui  meurt  dans  la  splendeur  de  la  journee, 

L'homme  jeune,  qui  a  un  coeur  si  pur! 


92  The    P  oet 

L'age  doit  connaitre  tqus  les  vents  de  glace ; 
Les  heures  lugubres,  quand  au  soir  il  neige, 
Malheurs    d'une   vie,    comme   les   vents    de 

Norvege. 
Mais  Thomme  qui  ne  connait  du  monde  que 

grace, 
Et  meurt  quand  Juin  joyeux  voit  toutes  ses 

fleurs — 

N'a  pas  de  Tage  toutes  les  tristes  humeurs ! 

(1892) 


A  FORSAKEN   GRAVE-LOT. 
(Greenwood  Cemetery.) 

This  autumn-noon,  when  trees  were  red ; 

And  clouds  of  snowy  hue 
'Neath  skies  of  purest  azure  sped, 
I  walked  thro'  grave-lots  of  the  dead- 
Till  one  lone  stone  my  atte'ntion  drew. 


No  fence  to  guard  it;  but  fair  tombs 

Around  and  far,  and  flowers ; 
That  stone  stood  cold  with  no  sweet  blooms 
A  mound  forlorn,  like  haunted  glooms ; 

Bereft  of  love's  memorial  dowers. 


Poet  93 


Two  small,  low  bushes  at  the  head 
With  not  one  bloom  to  cheer  it ; 
The  mound  grass-grown,  and  not  a  bed 
Of  flowers ;  but  fallen  leaves  instead. 
While  twigs  and  sticks  were  lying  near  it. 

A  tall,  broad  elm  alone  stood  there. 

How  all  forlorn  the  grave, 
For  thirty  years  or  more  no  care 
Shown,  left  to  spring's  and  summer's  air ; 

The  fall's  and  winter's  blasts  to  brave ! 

In  eighteen  fifty-six  he  died: 

Babe  Leslie,  two  years  old. 
To  both  his  parents  was  denied 
The  joy  to  see  him  at  the  side 

Grow  up  a  man,  robust  and  bold ! 

Ah !  sure  they  loved  him  well  those  years, 
When  wedlock-hours  were  sweet. 

Their  first  child — ah !  his  mother's  tears ! 

Yet  with  dire  sickness  grew  wild  fears : 
They  saw  him  prone  at  death's  white  feet ! 

Two  years  of  baby-croons ;  and  weeks 
Filled  with  bright  prospects  rare. 

Ah !  roses  burst  on  Leslie's  cheeks ; 

Her  wonder  when  she  cried :  he  speaks. 
Too  soon  death  made  her  gladness  bare. 


94  T  h  e    P  o  ct 

Ah !  are  they  dead  too,  since  no  sign 

Of  memory  is  on  that  mount ; 
Or  had  dire   poverty,   like  a  vine, 
Quick    strangled   love,   so   they   entwine 

Their  hearts  no  more,  by  affection  bound? 

Why  is  that  grave  forlorn,  who  say ! 

For  forty-two  long  years 
No  mourner  stood  there  in  the  day ; 
No  woman  went  there  slow  to  pray ; 

Or  shed  for  one  so  young  soft  tears. 

Forgotten — and  untended  lies 

That  babe's  mound  and  headstone; 
Yet   sheds   the   elm-trees   melodies 
And  autumn,  wrapt  in  glorious  dyes, 
Strows  flower-hued  leaves  on  it  alone. 

Thus  some  are  stricken  by  harsh  fate : 
They  wed ;  know  bliss ;  see  death  ; 

They  mourn — perchance  grow  poor,  and  wait 

For  riches;  still  are  desolate; 

Or  check  thro'  death  life's  rythmic  breath. 

Though  no  one  comes  to  tend  that  grave 

The  birds  sing  in  the  shades 
Of  that  one  elm,  whose  branches  wave 
Soft  elegies;  the  seasons  lave 

The  mound,  so  that  it  never  fades. 

(1894) 


T  he    P  o  e  t  95 


TO  WOLCOTT  BALESTIER. 

We  sat  once  side  by  side — 

In  those  happy  college  days — 
When  to  our  thoughts  this  life  seemed  wide ; 

And  we  could  reach  our  goal 
By  many,  many  ways 

Of  heart,  and  mind,  and  soul. 
Ah !  me !  now  thou  art  dead, 
From  thee  life's  laurels  all  have  fled. 
Thou  since  hadst  won  renown 
Before  death  quivered  down 
Upon  thee  his  so  icy  spear; 
And  we  shed  now  full  many  a  tear 

For  thee — 
Dear  College-friend — and  friend  in  poesy ! 

I  see  thy  face  so  pale 

With  ambition's  flush  soft-rosed ; 
As  thou  didst  tell  to  us  the  tale 
Whose  humor  made  us  smile. 

Ah !  how  thy  head  was  posed, 
So  genius-like  the  while — 
Thine  eyes  lit  with  the  light 
Of  contemplation  deep  and  bright. 

Thy  lips  flowing  rare  wit 

As  we  did  round  thee  sit. 


96  The    Poet 

Thy  brow — thy  face — all,  all  thy  mien 
Had  glowing  there  the  brilliant  sheen 

Of  gifts 

That    hidden    lay — whose   veil    fair    manhood 
lifts  ! 

Ah !  then — who  thought  that  fame 

On  thy  head  its  crown  would  lay — 
We  all  were  students — with  no  name — 

With  hope — ambitions  proud, 
That  would  be  true  one  day, 

And  win  the  wond'ring  crowd. 
I*  yet  remember  thee, 
As  in  a  stage  together  we ' 
With  students  drove,  to  hold 
A  solemn  barbecue  of  old — 
Upon  Cayuga's  midnight  shores, 
(When  we  became  proud  Sophomores). 

O  night 

Of   strangest   feasting — with   song's   true   de 
light  ! 

Then,  as  within  the  room 

We  gathered — thou  didst  ask 
Me  play  some  tune  of  gloom — 

Then  Schumann's  soul-strain  shone ; 
And  therein  thou  didst  bask 

As  in  the  sun  thou'dst  done. 
Thy  pensive  head — thy  dreamy  eye 
I  loved  then — and  it  seemed  that  I 


The    Poet 


97 


Could  trace  in  thee  what  haunted  long 
My  mind — that  since  has  flowed  in  song — 
Oh !  yea,  I  read  aright — for  fame 
Clings  to  the  utterance  of  thy  name. 

O  now 

Fair    laurels    wreathe    thy   beauteous    genius- 
brow  ! 

A  short  life  was  thy  doom — 

Ah !  too  soon,  too  soon  to  die ! 
Nipped  in  the  flush  of  bloom 

Ere  all  thy  gifts  could  glow ; 
Ere  rarest  panoply 

Thy  special  powers  could  show ! 
Yet  in  thy  work  powers  beam, 
Like  sparkles  in  a  rushing  stream ! 
Thy  genius  that  I  read  in  youth 
Hath  shown  its  splendrous  strength,  in  sooth. 
And  now  the  world  doth  weep  for  thee — 
Why  must  cold  death  untimely  be; 

And  take 
From  us  rare  minds  that  are  to  art  awake ! 

We  sat  once  side  by  side — 

In  our  happy  college-days, 
And  yet  those  hours  abide, 

As  though  'twere  last  fair  year. 
Yet  since,  fate's  many  ways 

Showed  thee  an  early  bier — 
While  I  must  sing  in  dole 


98  T  he     P  o  et 

Thy  memory  from  out  my  soul. 
For  we  had  sung  together  then ; 
In  college-room — in  shady  glen. 
And  now  I'm  glad  to  know  thy  fame ; 
That  praise  and  love  cling  to  thy  name.    • 

Forego 

To  ask  of  me  more  than  what  thrills  me  so ! 

(1891 


A  TUNE. 

Why  kiss  the  dead? 
Their   soul   is   fled ; 
And  in  its  stead 
Corrosion  black 
Is  on  the  body's  track ; 
And  Putrefaction  green 
Cries  in  between ; 
Whilst  change  with  yellow  breath 
Bites  at  the  corpse — and  that  is  Death. 
Why  touch  their  clay? 
From  it  the  soul  is  away ; 
Within  the  body  stay 
Dire  unseen  things 
And  transmutation  clings 
To  every  pore; 
To  heart's  unfathomed  core; 
Whilst  maggots  do  service  good, 
And  death  becomes  another's  food! 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  99 

Why  kiss  the  dead  ? 
Their  souls  are  fled, 
And  all  their  earthly  dread, 
That  thro'  the  body  made 
Them  feel  harsh  pain  invade  ; 
Disease  its  pangs  —  despair  — 
And  troubles  everywhere. 
That  dread  is  gone  ;  for  change's  breath 
Decays  the  clay  —  frees  the  soul,  and  that  is 

death!  (1894) 

*     *     *     *     # 

The  corpse  embalmed,  or  soaked  with  chem 
icals, 

Man  doth  defy  decay. 
But  when  the  principle  that  thralls 
To  life  our  clay 
Will  thrid  away  — 
No  man  hath  power 
At  death's  weird  hour 
O'er  life's  rare  principle  to  show  his  sway! 

(Written   at   table.)  Dec> 


THE   MINSTREL'S   RECOMPENSE. 

There  lived  a  wandering  minstrel  young 

Who  oft'  his  woe  in  tunes  had  sung, 

Who  passed  through  many  a  favored  town, 

And  seen  life's  river  up  and  down. 

In  cities,  where  applause  was  given 

To  men  that  lectured  —  preached  of  Heaven. 


ioo  The     Poet 

He  tarried ;  there  he  wrote  full  sweetly 

Rare  songs  that  came  to  him  so  fleetly : 

Like  May-winds,  opening  June-kept  roses ; 

Like  June-breaths,  quickening  woodland  closes. 

He  thought  that  once  acclaim  would  sound 

From  those  who  read  his  lays  profound ; 

And,  in  his  day-dreams,  often  he 

Would  think  himself  applauded  be, 

And  not  like  others,  who  do  bow 

Their  thanks — but  he  would  raise  his  brow 

Heavenward,  and  point  that  there 

Some  spirit  sent  to  him  the  fair 

And  potent  song  he  wrote  so  well — 

And  had  strange  power  the  world  to  spell. 

So  dreamt  he — but  never  came  the  -hour 

When  he  could  feel  the  applause's  shower 

Fall  exultingly  upon  his  ears. 

Through  all  his  earthly  sorrowing  years, 

Not  once  before  an  audience  he 

Spoke  out  his  songs  so  tunefully— 

Yet  lived  he  on  alone  and  well 

With  Spirit-sounds  adorable. 

And  he  was  satisfied  that  death 

Came  to  him  with  his  crystal  breath 

Entoning  anthems  of  rare  Heaven 

That  but  to  poets  true  are  given. 

So  hidden  are  Heaven's  peers  of  song— 
They  never  to  the  world  belong; 
But  like  some  star  in  evening  set 


The    P  o  'c  r 

They  live  alone,  with  no  regret, 
But  all  resigned,  and  knowing  of 
The  Spirit's  future  glowing  love; 
That  they  need  no  applause  or  praise. 
Their  inspirations  are  their  meed; 
And  their  souls  to  the  Creator  raise 
Song-thanks — so  one  bright  day  will  lead 
Them  to  a  new  life's  fairer  ways ! 


EDGAR  G.  BROOKS. 

(Obit.   1888.) 
I  see  the  road  that  windeth  up  the  mount 

Beyond  the  azure  lake,  from  this  quiet  hill. 
That  road  we  came  ago  from  learning's  fount : 

Fair,   far  Cornell.     Ah!  fifteen  years— and 

still 
The  memories  my  thought  sweet  entertain. 

You  were  with  me,  rare  Edgar,  poet  true ! 
We  both  had  loved  the  melancholy  strain. 

And  let  rare  fancy  our  two  souls  imbue. 

To-day,  a  rover  o'er  world's  roads  untold, 
I  gaze  upon  the  azure  lake,  far,  far — 

And  feel  a  sting  that  all  those  days  of  old 
As  ^  embers,  once  kept  bright,  untended  are. 

And  in  my  soul  there  is  a  wail,  that  seems 

To  tell  that  life  is  but  a  show  of  dreams! 


*ib2  ff%e     Poet 


DESTRUCTION. 

Destruction  ! — 'Twas  ordained.    Who  was  that 

mind? 

Who  thus  destruction  vast  contemplated? 
And,  with  a  deeper  feeling  fraught,  to  soothe- 
As  flowers  blow,  implicitly  colored  fair, 
Perfumed,  and  grown  by  roselands,  swales, 
To  beautify  the  barrenness ;  or  with 
That  soul  of  love,  sex-born,  to  elevate 
The  inner  joys,  innate  in  those  that  feel 
A  breath  of  holiness,  when  in  the  converse  pure 
'Tween  man  and  maid? 

Yet  through  that  pulse 

Of  ichored  veins,  which  sensates  highest  soul, 
There  faintly  chafes  a  mingling  muttering— 
As  by  some  lonely  Rhododendron-grove 
Within  the  silentness  the  shadowy  falls 
Their  hollow  mysteries  pronounce, — a  grief 
That  mutters :  oh !  the  untold  certainty 
Of   Heaven,   with   the   destruction   dark,   that 

roars 

Within  us,  as  some  storm  o'er  cliffs,  that  cave 
The  prophet-eagles,  far,  by  Tiflis  hoar. 

Destruction!     And  the  fire  of  the  sun 

Doth  parch  the  senses  of  the  brain ;  doth  burn 

The  vigor  of  the  creating  soul  inspired. 


The     Poet 


103 


Yet  through  the  ripening  air,  the  highest  work 
Of  God  doth  labor ;  but  in  the  mystic  clay 
Unknownly  acts  some  higher  element 
Not  doomed  as  body  or  as  brain,  but  glowing 
With  essence  not  the  man  may  master 
Or  unravel ;  such  doth  suffer  by  the  sun ! 
The  braccate  bushes  lush  in  savory  gems ; 
They  grow  !    There  rounden  .on  the  apple-trees 
The  blossomed  flowers ;  some  crubesce ;  they 

thrive ; 
Glow-bunches,  pendant,  bend  the  straightened 

stems ; 
The  grain   grows   goldier,   pinkest,   and   doth 

fatten. 

Fields  glorious  spread  a  lustre  o'er  their  neigh 
bors, 
More    than    egregious    in    their    supporation's 

sheen. 

All  plants  thrive ;  also  beasts,  incicurable, 
As  too  tame  laborers  for  agrestic-  man. 
But   should  th'   inventive   brain   of  man   suc 
cumb  ? 

Joy,   jocund  sport,  droop,  as  an  Afric-flower 
Upon  the  bourne  of  the  Simoon ;  the  links 
That  chain  past  days  of  momentous  feats    do 

fold 

And,  crisping,  shrivel,  as  dried  leaves  in  woods 
That  scatter  beneath  the  tread  of  pard  and  gnu. 
The  incalescent  veins,  as  geyser's  spray 


104  T  he     P  o  et 

Where  the  fleet  elk  o'er  torrid  lands  doth  roam 
Transvey  their  torpitude  to  temple,  and  stay 
The  vivacity  of  pulse,  and  brightest  wit. 
And  frivolous  charms  incrust  within  that  shell 
Of  covert  walls,  as  though  the  Limat  soft 
By  the  Kamsin  with  terror  should  be  mured, 
Till  Cyprus  glow  a  desert  red,  and  clouded 
With  tremendous  -fire  !    Oh  !  so  destruction  dire 
Its  myriad-fanged  fire-tongue  doth  fletch. 
Toward  soul  its  brands  wild  tosses,  till  they 
flame ! 

Fragment  (1888) 


DEATH. 

We  awake  from  out  the  wondrous  womb 

And  smile  at  life  so  rosed. 
And  wonder  at  God's  mighty  plan. 

Then  we  go  to  our  destined  grave : 
The  doors  to  'Tature  and  to  man 

Forever  closed! 


LINES. 

The  canary-bird,  he  calleth  me 

The  canary-bird  calls  peevishly 

But  now  he  singeth  full  and  cleai 

A  whistling,  sweet  as  from  the  far  Azores 

Where  all  the  verrlant,  scented  shores 


The     Poet  105 

Ring  purling;  re-echoing  far  and  near. 
The  metal  carols  from  the  golden  throats — 
The  liquid,  triU'ring  of  the  laughing  notes! 

The  golden  breasted  bird,  so  free, 

Now  sings  so  clear  his  madrigal— 
And,  O,  my  soul  takes  wing  to  thee, 

Fair  land  of  eolden  fruit-trees  tall ! 
Have  I  nepenthe  quaffed ; 

Or  hemlock-goblet  taken? 
Or  hath  a  wizard  laughed, 

His  wand  o'er  my  head  shaken? 

Nepenthe  I  have  taken 
And  with  a  dreamy  look 
Have  stroked  the  mystic  Book. 

The  pages  fly  around  me ;  round 

About  me  lingers  opiate-sound: 

As    tinklings     from    bells    and     dance-tuned 

shawms 

Linger  pleasant  round  the  garnered  hawlms  ; 
While  dimpled  cheeks,  and  firy  eyes, 
Whirl  gladsomely  below  cool  skies : 
All  when  the  harvest-moon  is  white, 
In  silvery  sickle-raiments  dight. 

{Fragment.) 


io6  The    Poet 


VISIONS. 

I. 

What  vastness  is  behind  the  frontal  bone  ? 

What  visions  loom ;  what  realities  are  there ! 

With  wind's  swift  pace,  we  fly  to  regions 

fair — 

Or,  like  a  lull,  we  dream  of  God  alone ! 
So  came  to  me  a  thought — wild,  wild,  as  waves 

In  the  mid-sea — or  as  a  meteor's  fire : 

All  souls  that  cling  to  earth,  to  its  same  gyre, 
They  will,  at  death,  be  born  again;  nor  saves 
A  jot  of  prayer  to  take  them  to  the  Heaven. 

But  those  free  souls,  that  think  of  God,  and 
are 

Beyond  the  earth's  dictations — love  the  star 
More  than    the    gold,    that    is  to    Mammon 
given — 

Those  souls,  so  different  from  earthly  men 

At  death,  they  need  not  go  to  earth  again! 

II. 

Hath  that  no  truth  ? — What  use  this  suffering 
We  know ;  our  body's  thraldom  to  the  air ! 
Our  anguish — all  our  love — our  strange  de 
spair  ! 


The    Poet  107 

What  boots  all  this,  if  we  should  no  more  sing 
Our  heart-songs   in  some  fields,  more   flour 
ishing 
Than  these,  where  asps  do  hide — miasmas 

rise. 
There  must  be  yet  some  planet,  where  the 

skies 
Shout  loud :  Perfection  must  bloom  everything ! 

Oh!   for  an  earth  that  doth  not  change  our 

health— 

Where  bodies  thrive  suavely  in  all  climes — 
No  colds,  no  aches — no  pests — no  poisonous 

times ; 
So  all  our  thoughts  may  wreathe  themselves 

with  wealth 
Of  soul-born  dreaming;  pure  sweet  homes — 

and  heap 
On  all  our  doings  blessings  we  can  keep! 

III. 

There  are  such  worlds !  astronomers  have  seen 
Fair  Mars — it  boasted  of  divinest  fields — 
And  woods,  and  life  that  clement  earth-air 

yields ! 
Why  should  not  more  be  there?     At  death,  I 

ween, 

The  Heaven-prescient  souls  shall  to  their  hopes 
Be  borne,  and  have  new  shapes,  more  per 
fect  far 


io8  T  he     P  o  c  t 

Than  ours ;  and  shall  be  nearer  to  that  Star 
For    whom    our    searching    soul    so    sternly 
gropes ! 

If  evolution  be  in  Nature — souls  evolve; 
And,  ripe,  break ;  rising  to  the  fairer  spheres, 
Where    more    perfection    is,    and    more    of 

cheers ! 

And  there  our  woes,  and  tears,  and  pain  dis 
solve. 
For   there    no   changing   airs    will   soil    the 

day- 
An  ever  balmy  clime  for  Love's  true  Lay ! 

IV. 

For  such  I  rave ;  oh ! — where  God's  wonders 

fair 

I  long  may  muse  on ;  till  I  find  His  Law 
And  Love,  so  I  be  perfect — with  no  flaw 
On  me — to  need  reproval — or  another's  care. 
Triumphant,   all   my  thoughts   will   sweet  en 
twine 
With   God's  high  thinking  in  the   Future's 

Dawn ! 

Then  Money  will  be  rotted — on  Soul's  Lawn 
We  all  shall  love,  and  lead  a  life  divine ! 

And  such  can  be !     I  feel  it  as  I  feel 

Spring's   breath   in   quick' ning   woods,   and 
budding  plains — 


The    P  c  t  t  109 

Ignore   thy  pride — thy   greed   for   clinking 

gains ! 

Only  when  all  thy  soul  will  sweet  appeal 
To  Praise,  and  Love,  and  Peace,  wilt  thou 

become 
Worthy  to  enter  God's  more  perfect  Home! 


THINK  OF  THE  ANGELS! 

A  simple  story  have  I  read  to-night, 
^  While  lost  in  gazing  at  the  sky's  perfection. 
So  obvious  is  it,  yet  'twill  give  delight 

To  those  abhorring  woe  or  dark  dejection : 
Proud  affluence  seems  to  glitter  only  for  us ; 

As  in  the  sun,  we  do  forget  our  end — 
But,  when  in  darkness,  all  the  world  ignore  us, 

Good  Heaven's  consolation  is  our  friend ! 
As  when  air's  darkness  covers  land  and  sea 
A  million  dazzling  stars  shine  bright  and  free, 
To  whisper  goldenly  that  God  created 
The  right — as  well  as  hours  sorrow-freighted ! 

Read  in  the  blue  of-  night :  the  stars  are  there. 

And,  in  thy  woe :  think  of  the  Angels  fair! 


no          T h c  P o e t 


CORRESPONDENCE  TERMINATED. 

Not  that  some  vine  of  bane  its  tendrils  wound 
Around   our   friendship;   nor  that   quarrels 

doomed 

A  separation ;  nor  that  jealousy  had  gloomed 
The  amicability  that  was  profound. 
Not  that  to  distant  countries  he  had  gone, 
Forgetful  of  loving  hours  by  the  woods ; 
Nor  that  I  so  had  loved  thoughts  solitudes. — 
Not  that  the  cause  that  letters  never  shone 
Upon  the  days  when  either  longed  for  news 
From   either ;    oh !    stranger    reason    was 

alive. 

I  loved  him  yet ;  but  months  and  years  had  fled. 
"He   is   inconstant,"    thought    I ;   "he    did 

choose 

"To  avoid  my  answers."     But  when  blos 
soms  thrive 
I  knew  the  dreary  cause:  for  he  was  dead! 


YAMUN. 

"Why  lonely  through  those  rose-groves  walk 
ing,  where 

The  bulbul  trebleth  her  lotus-scented  song! 
Alone  by  padme-lakes,  where  nautch  girls 
throng 


The     Poet  in 

Not  on  a  Siva-dedicated  day ! 
Why  thither  strolling — in  the  heavy  air, 

Heavy  with  rich  flower-fragrance,  to  yon 

bay 

Whom  the  pink  Ibis  dreadeth — the  lyre-bird 
But   visits   when   her   mate's   song's   no   more 
heard!" 

"Away  from  cymbal,  and  the  soft  dance,  far 
From  temples  reared  on  lonely  vine-clung 

sites ; 
Lonely  with  my  thoughts,  and  the  song  of  star, 

Th'  ineffable  magic  of  mysterious  nights  ! 
Alone  I  wander,  yet  in  talk  with  One  Who 

saith : 
'  I  am  thy  friend,  am  Yamun !     I  am  Death !'  " 

(Lakewood-forest,  N.  /.) 


ELEGIE. 

There  was  a  beauteous  shell  upon  the  strand 
That  shell  lay  there  at  morning-hour. 

Then  came  the  people  from  the  town  and  land 
And  gazed — admired  it  more  than  flower. 
Then  said  they :  at  the  night 

We'll  take  it  home  to  give  to  others  like  delight. 


ii2  The    Poet 

At  night  they   came — but   since  the   glorious 

noon 

The  tide  had  grasped  the  shell  so  fair — 
'Twas   gone ; — then   all   the   people   left — and 

soon 
The  shell  of  beauty,  past  compare, 

From  all  their  thoughts  had  gone — 
Their  memory  of  its  rarest  splendor  now  had 
flown. 

They  knew  soon  other  shells  would  lie  upon 

the  strand — 
No  print  the  shell  left  on  the  beach — 'twas 

lost. 

So  is  it  when  a  human  being  from  the  land 
Hath  gone  to  join  the  Manes-host — 

Soon  he  is  far  from  earth — 
The  world,  forgetting  him,  thinks  of  another's 
birth. 

O  thou  who  now  dost  know  what  after  death 

will  be — 

Thou  art  forgotten  by  the  world  so  soon. 
O  hadst  thou  only  left  a  mighty  memory 
In  work — for  all  thy  precedents  as  boon — 

Thou  still  wouldst  be  to  this  day 
A  power  to  all  the  coming  host  in  human  clay. 

We   live   but   by   our   works,   our   deeds,   our 

aims — 
When  death  comes,  though  we  lie  at  rest, 


F  h  e     P  c  e  t  113 

The  future  world,  by  conning  what  we  did,  still 

claims 
Us  as  their  own — and  sees  we  did  our  best. 

But  when  no  work  we  left 
Of  memory,  of  life  aft'  death,  we  are  bereft ! 

So  men  and  women,  youths  and  maids,  be  fond 
To  leave  some  work  of  greatness  when  you 

die — 

So  when  you  are  in  realms  of  heaven  beyond 
On  earth  ye  have  your  immortality — 

For  only  works  of  glory 
Insure  a  life  aft1  death  in  this  world's  story ! 

(January  I,  1900. 


MILTON'S  ITALIAN  SONNET. 

(Translation.) 

Thou  pretty  damsel,  whose  fair  name  revives 
The  grassy  Rhenish  vale ;  its  noble  crests — 
Well  he,  who  any  worth  discharging,  rests 

Far  from  thy  gentle  soul  where  passion  lives. 

O  gently  let  him  show  it — if  he  gives 

Sweet  proof  of  his  attachment  and  his  zests ; 
And  all  these  gifts,  of  his  own  truth  the  tests, 

Will  bloom  love's  flower,  aft'  which  thy  virtue 
strives. 


H4  The     Poet 

When  thou,  adream,  dost  speak,  O  blithely  sing 
So  that  thou  mov'st  the  obdurate  mountain- 
wood. 

Look  each  within  the  eyes,  and,  murmuring, 
Proclaim  to  all,  who're  worthy,  thy  love's 

mood : 

Thanks  only  to  the  worthy ;  'tis  not  told 
That  love's  desire  in  the  heart  grows  cold ! 


DEATH  AND  LIFE. 

October  shed  her  glory  on  rare  tree,  o'er  hill. 
And  down  the  valleys — through  the  dingle 

fair — 
When  through  the  labyrinthine  paths,  passed 

bare 
White   tombs — and    sculptured   sepulchres    so 

chill- 
We  strolled  to  find  our  friend's  grave,  flower- 

orned — 
Of     death     we     thought — of     separation's 

gloom — 

When  down  a  hill  two  faces  all  abloom 
Came,    thus   the    sad    place    was   with   smiles 
adorned. 

They   stepped   down    lightly    to    where    we, 

mourning,  stood — 
Then,  as  our  eyes  met — oh !  the  ripples  red 


The    Poet  115 

Upon  their    cheeks — we    quite   forgot    the 

dead. 

So  is  death  hidden  by  love's  eternal  brood — 
That,  though  we  see  tombstones  around,  love's 

power 
Sheds   life   and   love   in   us   as   from   spring's 

Shower!  (October,  1894.) 

LIFE  AND   DEATH. 

Activity  is  life — and  sloth  is  death. 

Grim  truth :  for  when  we  idly  live  the  day 
To  cold-germs  is  our  death-loved  body  prey ; 
Our  throat  grows  choked — and  we  lose  quick 
ening  breath ! 

When  stagnant  lies  our  blood  within  our  core 
Death-germs,    e'er    waiting    in   our   organs 

frail, 

Grow  sudden — therefore  must  we  evermore 
Promote  new  heat  to  kill  who  life  assail ! 
Oh !  is  this  life  but  heat — and  death  is  cold ! 
It  is  too  true :  within  our  system  lie 
Grim   germs,   that,   when   our   body   is   not 

warm, 

Infest  us — and  take  of  our  organs  hold — 
Then  woe  to  us — where  is   life's   ceaseless 

charm? 

When   age's   stagnant   blood  grows   thin — we 
die! 

(December  31,  1898.) 


n6  The    Poet 


WHAT  THE  INNER   EYE   DOTH   SEE. 

"Speak  not  thy  curse !  nor  ope'  thy  lips  to  flow 
A  random  mock  at  Nature's  majesty !" 
Hast  uttered  it ! — That  undulous  air  will  be 

Recorded  in  caverns  of  the  long  ago ! 

Now,  now,  the  pendulous  earth  doth  note  the 

blow, 

And  through  the  stellar  space,  so  noiselessly, 
It  is  propelled,  till,  'gainst  the  planets  free 

It  shakes  their  ponderous  spheres  soft  to  and 
fro! 

Beware   what  wild   speech   flameth   from   thy 

mouth — 

Scarce  flung,  in  madness,  all  the  spheres  re 
sound 

That  utterance,  years  afar,   in   God's   Pro 
found  ! 

All  whispers  wend  their  wavy  way,  and  Truth ! 

Like  surges,  on  the  multitudinous  shores 

Of  things,  spill  all  they  said,  for  Time's  own 
stores ! 


T  h e     P  o  e  t  117 


GOD'S    SUPREMACY. 

I  delight  to  see  a  storm — 

For  therein  God  is  manifest ! — 

No  man  may  stay  its  sway, 

And  say  the  winds  to  blow  away — 

But  on,  in  its  own  swift  behest, 
The  storm  doth  rage ! 

I  delight  to  watch  a  wave 

Dash  'gainst  a  cliff  of  mystic  form. 

For  in  its  power  God  is  manifest ! 

No  man  may  tell  the  main  to  calm — 
Nor  pour  o'er  its  wild  pulse  a  balm 
Its  passion  to  assuage ! 

I  delight  to  trace  the  levin — 

When  loud  the  winds  howl  in  a  cave ; 
For,  in  its  flash,  the  God  is  manifest- 
Its  swiftness  men  may  never  sway — 
For,  on,  in  its  own  swift  behest, 
The  levin  flashes, 
And  crashes ! 

I  love  to  contemplate  the  marvels  all 
Of  God !    In  them  a  lasting  vein 
Of  His  Supremacy  doth  reign — 
That  maketh  man  a  wondering  thrall 
To  them  ! — O  God  !  Who  art  so  grand — 
Pray,  on  Thy  scorners  use  a  lenient  Hand  ! 


ti8  The    Poet 


WHEN    WE    ARE    DEAD! 

All  hath  been  said! 
Each  new  soul,  ent'ring  in  Life's  Hall, 
Propounds  some  questions ;  and  is  thrall 
To  queries  of  same  Nature ;  same,  as,  when 

The  youth,  in  Noah's  days,  was  curious 
To  know  why  shone  the  sun ;  why  gleamed  the 

glen 
At  eve ;  why  birds  were  building  nests ;  why 

loss 
Of  friend  fostered  the    pain    in  heart;    why 

glowing,  eyes 

Were  harbingers  of  some  advent,  full-glow 
ing: 
With  spangles  round  an  amorous  arm ;  to  sing 

of  skies, 

Propitious  of  a  day  for  love's  bestowing;— 
Why  flamed  the  fire ;  why  flowed  the  river ; 

why 
Were  stars  in  heaven ;  why  moaned  the  wind 

on  high; 
Why  were  the  maidens  delicate  more  than  the 

boys? 
Why  was  there  more  of  woe  than  of  gay 

pranks  and  joys; 

Why  seemed  age  odd,  when  youth  and  man 
hood  stronger  were ; 


The    Poet  119 

Why  had  there  grown  on  hills  the  plantain 

and  the  fir! 
Why  breathed  the  fish;  why  had  the   world 

been  made; 
Why  was  there  coolness  in  the  cave,  and  in 

the  forest-shade; 
Why,  why — and  why  to  countless  things,  all 

found  in  Nature; 
Why,  why  to  many  moods  in  man,  in  lower 

creature ; 

And  so  as  each  new  soul  asks  why  as  long  ago 
And  all  is  same  on  earth,  then  we  shall  know 
More  beauteous  things,  ivith  heavenly  wings, 
When  we  are  dead! 


ELEGY. 

(In  Memory  of  my  late  Brother  Frederick.) 

White  clouds  float  in  the  azure  sky; 

This  June-morn  breathes  a  candent  air; 

Yet  intermittent  breezes  fare 
Thro'  this  fair  grove  so  coolingly. 

Quick  liquid  songs,  and  chirps  so  gay, 
Sound  from  the  many  birds  around. 
And,  farther,  comes  to  me  the  sound 

Of  farmer-boys  and  girls  at  play. 


120  The    Poet  ' 

Ah !  well  thou  knowest  where  I  be, 

Dear  brother!  dead  these  four  years  gone. 
Here  dream  I  now,  so  all  alone 

Still,  thou  art  in  my  memory! 

For  thou  wert  here,  ten  years  ago. 

When  we  would  walk  the  wild,  free  wood. 

And  contemplate  the  solitude 
And  listen  where  the  brook-waves  flow. 

Here,  at  the  early  morn,  in  June, 
We  rode  adown  the  valley  green ; 
Our  ponies  young  would  oft  careen; 

We  heard  the  embowered  thrushes'  tune ! 

Here,  we  would  dream  of  fame  to  be ; 

Of  love-ties  that  were  never  tied. 

For  fate  had  to  thy  life  denied 
The  bliss  of  love's  felicity. 

And  here,  this  morn,  with  no  one  near 
Thou  in  my  thought,  I  dream  away; 
Thinking  of  all  thy  woe,  that  day 

When  death  surprised  thee — that  doleful  year 

Oh!  can  I  smile,  as  roses  smile 

When  the  awakening  morn  blooms  full ! 
Oh !  can  I  here  my  memories  lull 

As  lilies  near  the  pasture-stile? 


T  h  e     P  o  e  t  121 

Nay,  nay !  we  are  not  like  the  flowers 
Nor  like  the  gale ;  nor  like  the  birds ; 
Nor  like  the  bees;  nor  like  the  herds; 

Nor  like  the  air  in  May-born  showers. 

We  have  a  demon  that  assails  us : 

Deep  Thought — that  cowers  at  our  side. 
And  snaps  at  us,  when  we  abide 

By  Memory  past,  that  aye  bewails  us. 

Bewails  us;  for  we  think  and  dream, 

In  vain  to  solve  the  mysteries; 

In  vain  to  call  the  destinies : 
Those  friends  that  like  mock-demons  seem. 

Long  have  I  thought,  since  thou  hast  died ; 

Long  thoughts  passed  thro'  my  dreary  mind. 

Yet  never  could  I  surcease  find; 
Though  to  desist  I  long  have  tried. 

Oh !  Life !  thou  torturer  to  souls 
That  feel  in  them  the  larger  world. 
Thou  life,  that  hast  thy  veil  tight-furled 

Hiding  the  light  of  all  our  goals. 

Oh !  death !  art  thou  the  wrencher  wild 
Of  that  grey  veil,  that  hides  her  face  ? 
And   thou,    who   hast   now    seen    Heaven's 
grace, 

Art  thou  by  truth  and  light  beguiled? 


122  The    Poet 

It  must  be  so — for  I  am  calm 

When  death  seems  but  the  portal  fair 
That  leads  us  to  a  larger  air: 

A  world  of  peace,  and  love  and  balm! 

Then  will  I  loud  proclaim  to  all 
That  death  unveils  life's  mystery. 
In  voice  as  fair  as  when  the  wild  wind  free 

Inbreathes  with  song  the  wood-trees  tall. 

Then  will  I  be  a  herald  here, 

While  living  lonely,  shorn  of  love, 
With  songs,  as  sound  within  the  grove 

When  dawn  inspires  the  thrush  to  cheer ! 

Thou  brother !  dost  thou  listen  now  ? 

Within  this  wood  we  twain  had  been ; 

And  loved  to  walk  thro'  wood-aisles  green 
And  stand  exultant  by  the  brook-oak's  bough. 

O  trust  is  fair ;  and  hope  is  strong. 

I  shall  await  my  change  in  peace ! 

For  then  my  doubt  and  woe  shall  cease ; 
And  till  I  die  will  sound  my  song. 

Delaware   Water  Gap    (1899) 


The     Poet  123 


AT  DEATH. 

When  to  the  sepulchre  my  remains  they  take 
Not  one  will  know  who  died.     For  through 

my  life, 

That  was  a  waging  with  incessant  strife, 
No  one  was  to  my  greatness  e'er  awake. 
They  slept,  and  slept !     Ah !  me !  so  was  it  too 
With  all  those  solitary  men  of  old : 
Poets,    song-wrights,    in    Art's    wide    fairy- 
fold  ; 

Their  graves  were  wreathed  and  known  save 
by  a  few. 

So  it  is  fate  that  makes  the  poet  great 

Unknown   to  his   own  kind   while   here  on 

earth. 
See  Shelley,  Keats,  and  all  those  souls  whose 

fate 

It  was  to  die  alone  in  woe  or  dearth. 
So  when  my  bones  lie  mould'ring  in  my  grave 
The  few  might  know  what  to  fair  Art  I  gave ! 


124 


LITTLE    BY    LITTLE. 

Little  by  little  do  we  come  to  conclusions ; 
Little  by  little  do  we  flee  life's  delusions ; 
Little  by  little  do  we  learn  thought's  abstru- 

sions ; 
Little  by  little  do  we  lose  youth's  illusions. 

Little'  by  little  do  those,  living,  advance ; 
Little  by  little  do  we  gain  fame's  height ; 

Till  we — till  we  awake  from  a  Trance ! 
And  our  Self  sees  the  Heavenly  Light. 


DEATH. 

Methought  that  all  we  see  was  true  and  fair ; 
That  all  our  thoughts  bloomed  from  the 

brain  and  blood ; 

That  all  our  actions  in  life's  brawling  flood 
Had   their   right   source    from   what   changed 

often  there 

Within  the  body,  grown  for  weal  and  strife. 
Ay !  I  had  mused  full  oft'  that  all  we  see, 
We  touch,  feel,  smell,  and  hear  so  won- 

drously, 

Was  the  great  means  that  made  our  earthly 
life. 


The     Poet  125 

When,  as  I  died,  in  blissful  calm  of  mood 
My  rising  spirit  knew  that  all  life  gave 
Of  moment,  had  to  perish  in  the  grave. 
Yet  all  that  made  me  conscious  of  myself — 
That  told  me  right — and  freed  me  from  low 

pelf — 
Was  my  own  self— to  rise  to  Heavenhood ! 


BABY    LOUISE. 

AN 


What  hath  existence  is  a  prey 

To  fell  destruction's  ruthless  laws!  — 

God  breathed  His  Light  within  thy  clay, 
Yet  Death  fast  stretched  his  griffon-claws 

And  choked  thee,  tender  child,  scarce  five  vears 
old! 

What  hopes  we  shared  to  see  thee  bloom 
To  womanhood  in  summer's  glow  — 

But  now  thou  sharest  another  doom, 
To  be  released  from  life's  long  woe 

And  sing  and  gladden   in   Heaven's  glorious 
fold! 

What  grows  in  Beauty  by  the  stream  : 

The  gummy  roses  of  the  wood  — 
Must  fall  aground  —  and  be  a  dream  _ 

Nor  can  it  e'er  be  understood 
Why  Beauty  must  become  a  mouldered  clay  ! 


126  T  h  e    P  o  e  t 

The  gorgeous  lyre-bird  doth  fly 
In  midst  of  redolent  southern  trees — 

But  soon  it  flutters  down — to  die 
Within  the  lonely  fastenesses. 

What  lived  in  beauty  dies  within  a  day ! 

And  we,  with  light  divine  in  us, 

Though  we  have  God  to  help  and  aid — 

Are  thralls  to  death  so  treacherous — 
We  lie  beneath  the  cypress-shade; 

And  soon  grow  all  forgotten  of  the  world ! 

O  where  is  Christ  to  crush  harsh  death  ? 

O  where  is  God  to  keep  us  well? 
And  ere  we  speak  we  lose  our  breath — 

And  ere  we  know  comes  death  so  fell — 
And  we  and  all  are  in  oblivion  hurled ! 

O  babe  Louise — scarce  taught  to  say 
A  few  soft  words  we  love  to  hear — 

Scarce  smiling  with  us  through  the  day, 
Not  strong  enough  to  brave  wild  fear — 

Comes    death — to   take    thee    from    our    love 
away ! 

O  babe  Louise,  untaught ; — unsaught 

By  comrade  or  by  bonnie  beau ; 
Not  having  felt  the  Spirit,  fraught 

With  God's  high  Wisdom  and  its  glow — 
Comes  death — to  take  from  thee  thy  wedding- 
day ! 


The     Poet  127 

Thou  rosy  child — where  art  thou  now  ? 

Too  young  to  feel  high  reason  reign — 
Could'st  thou  have  gone  to  Heaven's  glow? 

Or  wilt  thou  come  to  earth  again— 
Since  thou  hast  not  yet  learned  life's  lesson 
stern  ? 

And  if  thou  must,  I  pray  for  thee 
Less  pain — so  thou  can'st  grow  a  rose 

Crowned  by  a  lover's  constancy — 

Unharmed  by  life's  sad  tears  and  woes — 

So   aye   thy   thoughts   to   mirth   and   Heaven 
turn! 

What  smiles  and  blushes  hotly  here 

Must  on  some  day  be  icy  cold — 
God  dyed  the  clouds  with  colors  clear — 

Death  wrought  the  body's  fetid  mould — 
And  beauty  fades — and  smiles  must  turn   to 
tears ! 

What  hopes  we  share  to  see  thee  bloom 
To  womanhood,  my  young  Louise — 

But  God  foresaw  another  doom : 
To  spare  thee  much  of  life's  unease 

He  took  thee  to  Him  in  thy  tender  years! 

New  York  City  (Feb.  18,  i 


128  The    Poet 


POETRY-READING. 

So,  now  I  know  they  comprehend  not 

The  beauty-similies  of  poets — 
For  as  one  read  some  liquid  verses 

Rich  in  the  glow  of  dreamland — 
His  thoughts  were  not  sweet  mated, 

But   trod   upon   brain's   brown-herbed   turf- 
land; 
He  saw  not  the  opalescent  beauty 

Shine — heave  upon  the  sweet  word's  weav 
ing;— 

So,  therefore  would  you  comprehend  us, 

Be  like  the  fair  wine-tester, 
Who  sips  the  claret  or  the  nectar — 

Then  brings   its  flavor  to  his  thinking — 
Then  judges ! — so  then,  read  while  dreaming 

Observe  the  golden  thoughts  inwoven. 
In  quietude,  link  word  to  sentence — 

Till  similes,  and  thoughts  be  throbbing! 
And  to  it  bind  imagination — 

Then  will  you  ever  comprehend  us ! 

California  (1889) 


The     Poet  129 


AFTER    DEATH    IS    GLOW. 

O  there's  a  glow  soon  after  our  death — 
There's  a  world  far  brighter  than  ours. 

For  glows  not  at  eve  the  silvery  breath 
Fresher  far  than  at  noon-tide  hours! 

O  there's  a  splendor  soon  after  our  death — 
There's  a  rapture  far  lovelier  than  ours— 

O  glance  at  the  silvery  flood  of  the  breath, 
The  dead  sun  on  the  skies  o'er-showers ! 

O  there's  a  joy  soon  after  our  death, 
More  sublime  than  all  earthly  dowers— 

O  look  at  the  glist'ning,  roseate  wreath 
On  the  even  skies — how  it  towers ! 

O  there's  a  world  soon  after  our  death — 
A  fair  world  that's  ruled  by  kind  powers. 

O  list  to  the  sway  of  Nature's  sweet  breath, 
When  balm-Eve  her  eyelid  soft  lowers ! 

Ithaca,  N.  Y.  (1884) 


130  The     Poet 


EVENING-LINES. 

O  list  to  the  lyre  of  the  firs, 

When  in  the  even-breeze  it  stirs. 

How  its  melody  glideth  on ! 

As  though  o'er  a  mossy  carpet  soft, 
Its  harmony  flows  streamwise  way  aloft. 

As  if  all  harshness  hard  had  gone ! 

O  list  to  the  sway  of  the  firs, 

When  the  besom  of  the  breeze  now  stirs ! 

How  plaintive — like  a  wave  at  sea ! 
It  rustles  not,  but,  smooth  as  the  wind, 
It  glides  along  the  resounding  rind — 

With  a  gloom  of  its  own  wild  agony ! 

O  list  to  the  strain  of  the  firs, 
When  the  wind  in  the  even-air  stirs ! 
Like  the  sigh  of  a  soul  that  is  lost! 
Now  gentle  breathings,  uttered  soft 

and  low : 

A  faint  far  lustre  of  its  long  ago — 
Then    are    its    strings    in    the   wild    wind 
tossed ! 

Adirondacks  (1883) 


The     Poet  131 


HYMN. 

And  if  these  groves  were  thronged  amain 

With  vilest  vipers,  emerald  scaled, 
And  if  there  streamed  a  smiting  rain 

Adown  the  heavens,  vapor-veiled — 
Great  God !  my  knowledge  of  Thy  Might, 

And  of  Thy  Goodness,  unassailed, 
Would  strengthen  me,  mine  arm  to  fight — 

And  walk  these  groves,  yea,  unbewailed ! 

And  if  my  path  were  densely  strewn 

With  thorny  twigs,  to  bleed  my  feet — 
And  if  loud  Laughter  paled  me  soon — 

And  soon  base  Calumny  would  bleat — 
Good  God !  my  Knowledge  of  Thy  love, 

And  Thy  compassion, .  Paraclete  ! 
Would  soft  my  heart ;  and  I  would  rove — 

O,  free  of  fear — my  heart  would  beat ! 

And  if  this  World  were  woven  with  woof 

And  warp,  so  sharp  as  hellebards — 
And  if  this  World  were  all  from  me  aloof — 

And  I  stood  sad,  as  death-doomed  guards- 
Thy  Consolation  would  I  cherish. 

To  Thee,  with  fervor  would  I  pray: 
And  if,  in  my  delight,  I  perish, 

I  know  Thou 'It  love  me  now  and  aye! 

(1884) 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


The     Poet  133 


A   COUNTRY   CHILD. 

My  road  took  me  adown  a  slope 
To  a  willow-watched  stream ; 

And  there  I  met  a  country-child, 
In  its  eye  a  wistful  beam. 

Its  gown  was  one  short  flitting  dream 
Of  its  tender  frame  and  limbs ; 

It  wooed  each  swell  and  lovely  shape 
When  the  breeze  "blew  twenty  whims. 

It  was  a  six-year-child — a  girl 
That  was  bred  by  hill,  and  weir, 

A  simple  lass — with  short-grown  curls, 
That  would  shine  the  sun-specked  mere 

A  child,  and  innocent  and  fair — 

Like  the  flower  that  cheered  the  slope. 

And  wayward,  when  it  ran  the  wilds, 
Like  a  young,  sweet  antelope. 

When  first  it  beamed  upon  my  sight 
It  had  crossed  the  swaying  plank. 

Then  ran  it  through  a  garden-gate, 
Where  a  hut  stood  by  the  bank. 


134  The    Poet 

It  dwelled,  where  I  would  not  to  live : 

In  a  hut,  with  cracks  and  holes. 
But  there  it  played  with  wickers  and  mud ; 

And  it  tried  to  lift  long  poles. 

Around  the  hut  lay  strew  about 

Old  logs,  corfs,  and  leaves,  and  crocks ; 

Pans,  kettles,  and,  among  them  all, 

Strutted  hens  and  scarlet-wattled  cocks. 

And,  'neath  the  slim  bloomed  apple-trees, 
Lay  some  newly-wickered  creels — 

And  near  the  pebbly  creek,  there  lay 
Few  brown  nets,  and  fish-feared  weels. 

In  the  curled  stream  a  manly  wright 
Washed  the  muddy  wheels  and  wains — 

And  brushed  the  weazen  wood-meil  well ; 
And  he  thought  o'  the  morrow's  gains ! 

And  there  that  child  hopped,  and  it  bound 

Like  a  lambkin  in  the  fields ! 
It    laughed,    like    birdling,    in    the    blossomy 
boughs, 

That  would  know  what  summer  yields. 

Now  flew  that  simple,  six-year-child 
Past  the  golden-sprinkled  willows — 

With  dreamy  withes  touching  the  stream, 
That  had  foamed  its  fairy  billows ! 


The     Poet  135 

I  lost  it— when  the  tender  blue-green  shade 

Of  the  oziers  wept  a  haze — 
Then  sauntered  it,  with  shout,  upon  the  sedge, 

Where  the  kine  at  even  graze. 

I  saw  it  climb  to  the  red  barn ; 

And  it  passed  the  blake-beamed  booze — 
The  dove-cot,  with  its  whirring  air ; 

O'er  the  byre's  rushing  sluice. 

Then  passed  the  button-wood,  that  greened 
Its  small  leaves,  and  whitened  its  blea — 

Till  soon  it  reached  the  open  barn, 
Where  there  played  gay  children  three. 

And  see  them  chase  the  chanticleer— 
And  the  hens  and  wattling  geese. 

What  shouts  they  raise — what  clamor  breaks 
The  calm  breathing  of  the  trees ! 

O  see  its  loose-hung  robe ! — its  limbs 
Like  the  apple-blooms  were  rosed— 

At  each  grace-step,  its  fluttering  gown 
On  its  tender  form  reposed! 

They  threw   small   stones,   they   shrieked   and 
cried — 

And  it  bent  its  knees  so  fast ! 
So  that  I  thought  it  seemed  a  boy— 

But  no  one  cried  loud :  "Avast !" 


136  The     Poet 

It  climbed  the  barn-yard  fence,  and  seemed 

Like  a  wayward  boy,  so  strong. 
It  clasped  the  boards  with  both  its  knees — 

And  it  cried  its  child-like  song!' 

But  when  it  ran  athwart  the  road 
With  its  curls  and  gown  awhirl— 

Its  naked  limbs  had  all  the  grace 
Of  a  timid,  tender  girl ! 

Back  of  the  hamlet's  ivied  hammel, 
That  small  child  ran  low  and  high — 

O'er  bawned  meads — past  haw-haws  old — 
Like  a  colored  butterfly! 

Till  all  the  languid  willow-trees 
Hid  the  wandering  child  from  me. 

And  where  I  walk,  o'er  fields,  down  slopes — 
In  my  mind,  its  gown  I  see. 

What  simple  thoughts  that  bairn  must  bear — 
By  the  stream,  and  near  the  brake ! 

Its  unconcern  pleases  the  mind — 
And  youth's  days  in  me  awake ! 

Oh !  simple,  six-year-child,  so  gay ! 

Be  there  long,  by  mere  and  weir; 
By  kine,  and  bluff,  and  mead,  and  woods — 

So  thro'  life  thou  shed  no  tear ! 

Ithaca,  N.  Y.  (1884) 


The    Poet  137 


SONG  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

May  thy  waters  be  led 
By  the  storms  that  are  fed 

By  great  Cyclone  all  day — 
When  the  strand  begs  for  peace, 
All  thy  white  waves  must  cease — 

And  must  lose  their  great  sway 
Alway ! 


When  the  foam  of  thy  waves 
So  capriciously  paves 

Thy  wide  stretch  with  spume-caps — 
When  the  gale  cometh  forth 
From  the  halls  of  the  North— 

At  the  shore  thy  rage  laps — 
And  taps. 


Nor  may  Fury  avail 

To  drive  on  the  loud  gale 

So  it  sweep  the  high  sea 
On  the  land,  or  the  rocks — 
There  it  loseth  all  shocks, 

And  stops  sudden  its  glee 
So  free! 


1 38  T  h  c    P  o  e  t 

May  thy  power  in  mid-main 
Wreck  the  vessels  again 

And  again — on  the  shore, 
Though  thy  might  pushes  on 
Thy  great  waves  with  loud  groan, 

Thou  hast  power  no  more — 
Nor  store 

Of  gigantic  strength  left— 
Thou'rt  then  power-bereft ! 

And  the  sand  feels  thy  spume 
Like  the  touch  of  babe-hands — 
And  the  strength  of  the  lands 
Is  thy  death,  and  thy  gloom 
And  doom ! 

Cape  May  (1893) 


STRANGE. 

Methought  to  see  the  daisy's  grace 
Bloom  to  a  modest  human  face ! 
It  looked  so  meaningful  at  me, 
I  thought  it  could  no  flower  be ; 
But  some  divine  portraiture,  made 
To  enliven  this  cool  chestnut-shade. 

I  must  be  in  some  magic  wold ; 
And  not  near  to  the  shepherd's  fold— 
A  wold,  where  all  that  blooms  so  fair 


The     Poet  139 

Is  gifted  with  man's  senses  rare !  .  .  .  . 
O  to  that  daisy  did  I  tell 
Mysterious  stories,  quaint  as  spell. 

Still  gazing  at  its  golden  face, 
Encircled  by  its  petals'  grace, 
Methought  it  nodded,  sweetly  smiled, 
While  bird-songs  all  the  day  beguiled. 
And,  as  it  played  with  the  low  wind, 
Methought  it  one  with  human  kind. 


HEARING. 

How  wonderful  is  hearing ! — 'tis  so  strange 
That  through  our  ear  all   sounds  of   Nature 

range ! 

From  the  loud  bell  that  tolls  for  eventide 
To  that   sooth  murmur   where   the   gold-bees 

hide! 

At  once,  the  distant  clare  from  chanticleer 
Doth  come  with  laughter  from  those  children 

near. 
And    how    the    footfalls    are    distinct    from 

voices — 
From  creaking  carts,  and  blacksmith's  clanking 

noises. 

And  when  I  sit  alone  by  dancing  flowers 
The   brushing  breeze   is   heard — and   feather- 
showers 


I4o  The     P  o  ct 

Fall  on  the  lawn — so  still  the  breeze  falls  low 
Upon  the  mounds  where  dandelions  blow ! 
The  flute's  soft  mourning  down  the   dale   is 

heard, 
While,  near,  sounds  sweetly  joy  from  May's 

fair  bird ; 

While  on  the  early  fox-glove  rasps  the  bee — 
And  the  brown  leaf  doth  rustle  plaintively. 
How  sounds  the  cascade  down  the  distant  dell ! 
While  by  yon  hoary  oak  the  lambkin's  bell 
Doth  tinkle  softly — and,  near  to  our  nook, 
We  hear  the  souze  of  fishes  in  the  brook ! 

How  wonderful  is  man's  own  ear — that  he 
May  hear  all  sounds  that  in  rare  Nature  be ! 
Clear,  and  unmuffled — each  distinct  and  fair- 
Each  sound  hath  individual  dwelling  there ! 
Creator  of  the  million  spheres,  that  roll 
Around  our  globe — Thou  hast  in  Thy  control 
The  wondrous  means  to  make  a  human  soul — • 
And  to  it  such  a  body  wonderful 
Wherein  mysterious  things  work  beautiful ! 
Who  may  be  fool  enough  to  doubt  Thy  might 
When  from  an  atom  Thou  hadst  made  soul's 

light— 

And  from  all  sounds  hadst  made  a  vortex  small 
In  shape  of  human  ear  our  mind  to  enthrall- 
In  which  we  may  distinguish  faint  low  tunes, 
And  hear  the  thunder,  or  winds  of  many  Junes. 
In  which  we  gather  love-words,  whispered  low, 


The     Poet  141 

And  hear  the  shouts  when  men  to  battle  go ! 

O  ear,  thou  art  so  wonderful  to  me, 

(For  I  have  known  what  'tis  half  deaf  to  be)  — 

'Tis  thee  to  celebrate  these  lines  I  flow 

As  fluently  as  stream  where  lilies  blow. 


How  wonderful  is  hearing — 'tis  so  strange 
That  through  our  ear  all  sounds  of   Nature 

range ! 

The  laughter  from  those  cherry-lips  I  hear 
Distinct  from  the  rose-petal,  falling  near. 
And,  through  yon  breezy  grove,  bellows  of  kine 
Come  dreamy — while  my  sweet  one  sings  di 
vine 

Fair  tunes ;  and,  at  my  feet,  the  cricket's  chirr 
Sounds  like  a  distant  note  from  dulcimer ! 
How  wonderful  it  is  that  we  may  know 
Whether  the  wind  doth  soft  or  stormy  blow. 
And  how  the  ripples  lave  the  rushes — or  the 

wave 

Doth  dash  in  fury  'gainst  the  seashore-cave. 
How  marvellous  that  we  may  hear  Love's  low 
Sweet   whisper — and   the   bugles   when   war's 

aglow ! 

But  ah !  how  wretched  are  those  lonely  minds 
When  to  their  ears  no  sound  a  passage  finds. 
How  miserable  that  some  ignore  the  breeze 
And  chirr  of  insects  in  the  summer-trees. 
To  them  is  lost  a  charm  shy  lovers  know 


1 42  T  he    P  o  e  t 

When  to  their  ears  her  "yea-s°rig"  moves  so 

slow. 

Oh !  happy  they  who  have  all  senses  left 
And  are  not  of  sweet  hearing's  charm  bereft— 
For  wonderful  is  hearing — 'tis  so  strange 
That  through  our  ears  all  sounds  of  Nature 

range  !  Biskra,  Africa  ( 1893) 

ODE  TO    ROBERT   SCHUMANN. 

(HIS    SONATAS.) 

Thou  Milton,  who  with  tones,  and  sounds  har 
monious 
Marshalls    grand    soul-conceptions    so    they 

stand 

All  perfect  and  eusphonious ; 
When  we  thy  Titan-souled  Sonatas  play ! 
Attila   with   his   hordes — with   spear's   wild 

clashing — 
Then  feast  processions  o'er  the  conquered 

land; 

Then  by  the  sea-waves'  swashing— 
So  sound  those  bars  with  all  their  Titan-sway ! 

All  those  Sonatas  show  grand  dreaming : 
Like  prophet-visions  on  Mount  Arrarat. 

The  clash  and  clang  and  screaming 
Of  festals,  honoring  strong  Solomon! 

Grand  marches,  full  reverberant  of  valor, 


The     Poet  143 

That  crowned  the  valiant  Knights  at  Astolat ; 

Then  singing  of  maid's  palor — 
When  at  the  tournament  her  hero  falls  alone ! 

Now  cloister-singing  flows  through  strains  ro 
mantic — 

Hoar  oaks  their  branches  bend  by  chapel- 
doors — 

While  organ-chordes  gigantic 
Sound — as    the    virgins    pray    their    solemn 

prayer ! 

Then  woo  soft  melodies  sweet  scenes  of  lov 
ing 
While    languid    June-breaths    move    down 

mount-lake  shores 
Where  she  and  he  are  roving 
Sweet    whispering   stories    with    love-endings 
fair! 

All  sound  so  glorious,  joyous  full,  sonorous. 
No  dream  of  petty  troubles  moved  through 

thy  great  soul — 

Thou  heardest     the  fair  chorus 
That  glories  in  the  vastness  of  another  world! 
So  when  I  play  thy  soul-sonatas  wondrous, 
I  hear  the  joy— see  the  splendor  of  our 

goal 

When  Death  from  life  will  sunder  us — 
So  we  ourselves  can  see  Heaven's  realm  un 
furled  ! 

(1895) 


144  The     Poet 


SONG. 

O,  there  are  fairer  hills,  that  weave 

For  us  magnetic  charms — 
And,  as  the  rainbow,  at  the  eve, 

Clings  to  huge  clouds  of  storms — 
So  will  the  beauty  in  our  wandering  heart, 
Be  ever  iridescent,  will  ne'er  depart. 

Afar  the  vales  have  fairer  dells, 
Where  we  may  dream  at  will ; 
As  when  the  dingle-brooklet  swells 

Into  the  vale,  so  still- 
Yet  there  a  poet  sings  his  lay — and  lo ! 
His  singing  makes  the  stream  more  brightly 
flow! 

O,  there  are  fairer  hills  afar ; 
What  here  we  miss  is  there ! 
As  souls  dream  to  a  distant  star, 

Respiring  purer  air. 

So  may  we  leave  the  fond,  familiar  cove — 
For   other   woods    are   pregnant    with   dearer 
love ! 

Belgium  (1887) 


The    Poet  145 


SONG. 

There  is  a  dell,  which  not  a  one  may  see — • 

A  dell  with  wild  wood-flowers  richly  pied — - 
With  hum  of  honey-bees ;  and  music's  glee — 

A  dell  which  none  hath  ever  yet  espied : 
For,  'tis  away,  away  in  the  depth  of  my  soul- 
Far  from  earth's  sunrise— far  from  the  eve 
ning's  low  toll ! 


A    dell,    so    lone,    where     purest     fragrance 

dwells— 

Where  gutty  flowers  cling  to  passing  winds, 
Where  warbles  the  gold-thrush  liquid   canti 
cles — 

But  never  wanderer  that  lone  dell  finds — 
For,  'tis  away — O,  far  in  my  dreaming  it  is — 
There,   solitary,   live   sweetest   love   and   pure 
bliss ! 


O,  there  I  dream  with  sweetest  moods,  mine 
own ! 

With  mood,  far  dearer  than  a  languid  maid's, 
When  pining,  lorn  — with  memories  alone — 

A  mood,  O,  no  one  knows — -for  e'er  it  fades : 


146  T  h  e    P  o  e  t 

Since,  like  my  soul,  ethereally  blooms  it  and 

lives — 
And  but  to  me  such  extasies  plenteously  gives. 

There  is  a  dell,  which  not  a  one  may  see — 
A  dell,  where  lilies  whisper  lovely  lore ; 
And  where  the  breeze  is  swaying  purity. 

A  dell,  which  lieth  hidden  evermore : 
For,  'tis  away,  away  in  the  depth  of  my  soul! 
There  it  is  nestled  till  life's  seething  waves  no 
more  roll! 

Paris  (1887) 


A  FANCY. 

Trip,  little  fairies !  O,  trip  to  the  tune 

Titania's  minstrels  pipe! 
While  they  are  cradled  on  beams  of  the  moon, 

Their  flute-shafts  with  webs  they  wipe ! 

Garland  the  pale  air  with  safTron-hued  stole, 
With  wreathed  curls  floating  wild ! 

Sing  to  the  pipers — and  court  the  dark  mole, 
That  digs,  till  a  mound  is  piled. 

Trip,  wanton  fairies!  in  loveliness  trip! 
While  glimmers  the  glow-worm  weird! 


The     Poet  147 

Turret  the  musk-rose — passed  the  silver-lake, 

slip 
To  violets — midnight-teared. 

There  you  may  weave  a   dim-sparkling  wild 

dance ; 

Ring  shrilly  your  ouphen-chant ! 
Wake    the    dank     newt     from     his     revelry's 

trance — 
Conjure  the  dark  night-shade  plant ! 

Hover  then  o'er  the  uncanny,  deep  pool, 
Till  Limniads  spatter  sweet ! 

Fear  no   loud    clangors    that    sound    'baft  a 

ghoul- 
Be  merry  your  winged  beat ! 

List  to  the  lull  from  the  fells  in  the  wood — 

Avaunt ! — List ! — Titania  calls  ! 
Back   to   the   moon-lighted   grove,   where   the 
flood 

O'er  blue-broidered  rock-steps  falls ! 

Trio,  little  elfins !    O,  trip  to  the  time 
Your  Queen's  merry-making  swings ! 

Rest  on  pale  twigs — where  the  clusters  of  lime 
Waft  orient  imaginings ! 

(1886) 


148  The     Poet 


SONG. 

With  a  tuneful  low  number 
Softly  lull  me  to  slumber — 

Mylitta,  my  love ! 
Lie  on  mosses  and  flowers 
While  the  sunny  noon-hours 

Linger  through  this  lone  grove ! 

Keep  fond  vigil  for  me 
While  I  sleep  'neath  this  tree, 

Mylitta,  so  true; 
Soft  the  breezes  will  fan  thee 
And  the  flowers  will  scan  thee— 

While  the  heavens  are  blue ! 

Wilt  thou  sing  me  to  sleep — 
And  dear  watch  o'er  me  keep, 

Mylitta,  my  love ! 
Ah !  then  I  can  soft  slumber 
While  thy  tuneful  low  number 

Lingers  through  this  lone  grove ! 

MASTERY. 

The  Parian  block  stands  all  before  his  hand — 
With  chisel,  Michael  Angelo  began 
To  hew  out  marble — till  a  perfect  man 

Of  beauty  stood  revealed :  in  all  earth's  lands 


The     Poet  149 

Acknowledged  true  the  sculptor's  paragon  ! 
So  must  the  poet  great  flow  from  his  pen 
A  stream  of  perfect  words  (to  knowing  men 

Faultless)  with  ease — and  no  correction! 

Thus  hath  sweet  Chatterton  his  deathless  song 
Written — and  Fletcher  his  delicious  strains ; 
Shakespeare  his  wondrous  dramas,  without 

pains. 
For  only  when  true  inspiration  throngs 

The  artist's  soul — can  he  with  clear-wrought 

script 

Write  down  what  from  a  Spirit's  whispers 
slippt. 

(1895) 


BEIM   WASSERFALL. 

Stiirze,  stiirze  dich,  O  schaumender  Bach 
Hinab  im  tiefen  Abgrunde ! — 

Giesse — iibergiesse  mein  Mannes  Ach, 
Labe  meine  tiefe  Knabwunde ! 

Ertone,  holder  Bach,  O  deine  Weise ; 
Dort  oben,  im  Bette  frohem  Geleise ! — 
Erdonnere  von  Fels  zu  Fels  den  Schmerz 
Der  taglich  triibt  mein  einsam  Herz ! 


150  T  h  e    P  o  e  t 

Stiirze,  stiirze  dich,"  O  vielerzahlender  Bach! 

Im  steinigen  and  bemoosten  Abgrunde, 
Mit  Heftgkeit  hinab — so  wird  das  "Ach !"' 
Des    Marines    wohl — iind    kiihl    die    Knab- 
wunde ! 

(1885) 

GRUSS  AN  DEN  WASSERFALL! 

O  sei  gegriisset 

Du  weisser  wasserfall ! 
Wo  die  Blume  einsam  spriesset ; 

Und  dein  ferner  Donnerschall 
Ertonet  durch  Wald  und  Thai. 
Und  dein  dumpfer  Wiederhall 
Tief  in  der  tiefen  Hohlung  Spaltung  hohl, 

Erf  asset  me  in  Gramen  allzumal— 
Erloset  uns   vom   Denken  an   das   Menschen- 
wohl ! 

O  sei  gegriisset 

Du  gelb-schaumender  Wasserfall ! 
O  sei  du  mir  gekiisset ! 

Und  dein  traumender  Donnerschall 
Sei  mir  zur  Seligung  ein  Lied. 

Und  dein  trauriger  Wiederhall 
Umsausend  wild,  Gebiisch  und  Waldesstille 

Durchstrome     meinen     Geist,     jed'     Leibes 

Glied, 
So  dass  ich  Gottes  Amt  erfulle ! 

Watkins  Glen,  A.  Y,  (1885) 


The     Poet  151 


FRUHLING. 

Seid  nun  heiter,  liebe  Kinder ! 

Die  Sonne  scheint  nun  warmer, 

Von  Tag  zu  Tag. 
Die  Liifte  wehen  linder,  linder — 

Nur  in  dem  Baumenschlag 
Tont  das  Singen  lust'ger  Vogelschwarmer  ! 

Fern  ist  nun  der  Schnee ;  die  Wiesen 

Ergriinen;  in  dem  Walde, 

Durch  das  Thai, 
Springt  die  Quelle — Blumen  spriessen — 

Der  Bach  singt  allzumal ; 
Und  Blatter  werden  schatten  geben — balde ! 

Doch  viel  freud'ger,  seeliger  stisser, 
Als  all  das  landlich'  Schone— 

In  der  Natur — 
Wird  Schatzchen,  wenn  ein  junger  Kiisser 

Singt  ihr  'nen  treuen  Schwur— 
Das  ist  ihr  meher  als  all'  die  Friihlingstone ! 

(March,  1900) 


152  The     Poet 


WALDESSTILLE. 

Es  1st  die  Stille 

Des  einsamen,  diistern  Waldes ! 
Die  grauen  Wolken  fegen 
Den  Sonnebeschienenen  Himmel. 
Und  dunkeln  das  Laub  und  die  Krauter, 

Die  Schatten  und  bunte  Verzierung 

Dem  tief-rieselnden  Bache  geben. 
Nur  horchet  die  Tanne  dem  Winde ; 
Nur  lauschet  die  Eiche  dem  Brausen 

Des  lauwehenden  Windes ! 
Nur  senket  sich  die  Esche  dem  Toben 

Des  traurigen,  eintonigen  Wehens. 
Nur  Waldesblumen  neigen  die  Bliithen 

Und  Stangel  dem  frischen  Zuge 
Des  Schauer-erregenden  Aethers ! 

Es  ist  die  Stille 

Des  Waldes! 
Die  Giphel  der  Baume 

Beugen  sich,  und  rauscheln. 
Die  Cicada  tonet 
Seine  Trommel  so  helle. 
Und  wehet  immer 
Der  Wind  eintonig, 
Nach  seiner  Veise. 


The     Poet  153 

So  traurig,  so  duster — so  dunkel ! 

Keine  Seele  mir  nah. 
Nur  alte  Erinnerungen 
Die  die  Schauerlichkeit  des  Waldes 
Noch  schauerlicher  mahrchen ! 
Er  formet  jeder  Zweig  sich 
Zu  hohnende  Gestalten. 
Und  jede  Dunkelheit  bewohnet 
Die  Schurkschaft  eines  Daemonen. 

Die  Stille  dranget 
Die  Muth  in  die  Enge. 
Es  wuthet  der  Wind  da  droben, 

Und  schiittelt  jed'  Gewachs, 
Und  mir  die  tiefen  Nerven. 

Es  ist  die  Stille 

Des  Waldes ; 
Doch  singet  vereinsammt 

Ein  Vogel  sein  Lied. 
Eichhornchen  kichern 
In  Angst,  und  scheinen  verlassen. 

Doch  singet  des  Wehen 
Des  Windes  eine  Weise 
So  schauerlich — ich  denke  ich  fiihle 

Die  Kalte  des  Todes. 
Jedesmal  sein  Athem 

Meine  Backen  umfliesset ! 

Es  ist  die  Stille 

Des  einsamen,  diister'n  Waldes. 
(Wie  mocht  ich  mit  Liebchen 


154  The    Poet 

Hier  sein — sie  inniglich  kiissen!) 

Doch  meine  Seele 
Sie  lebt  in  Gedanken. 

Ich  bin  hier  wie  ein  Toder ! 
Allein !  doch  die  Seele 

Erschwillt  mit  dem  Winde — 
Erkennet  die  Allmacht! 

Nur  trostet  seinen  Trauer 
Dass  iiberall  ist  Leben. 

Wenn  nicht  Geistigkeit, 
Doch  Wiederhallen 

Der  ewigen  Weissheit ! 

Es  ist  so  stille! — 

So  auch  das  Grab ! 
Der  Wald  hort  des  Windes  Weise- 
Der  Wind  ertont  den  Wald. 
Mein  Geist  hort  viele  Gedichte ; 
Meine  Seele  verherrlicht 

Den  Inhalt  der  Lieder. 

Es  ist  die  Stille 
Des  tiefen,  verlassenen  Waldes. 

Es  wird  zutraulicher. 

Der  Schauer  beim  Eintritt 
Vergehet — und  friedlich 
Winken  Baume  and  Schatten: 
Verherrlichung  statt  Grtibeln ! 

Der  Wind  weht  Trost  mir 
Und  alles  erscheint  mir  traulich. 

So  ist  der  Tod! 


The     Poet  155 

Wir  fiirchten  ihn ! — Doch  kommt  er, 

Nach  kurzem  Kennen 
Erfreut  sich  die  Seele, 

Und  singet,  und  jtibelt. 

Erkennung  dass  Gott  1st— 
Dass  Er  tins  nimmt  nach  dem  Tode, 

1st  wie  die  eigene  Stille 
Des  einsamen,  dustern  Waldes : 

Wann  graue  Wolken  schwillen 
Und  Winde  brausen  im  Sturme ! 

( 1886) 

TO  TENNYSON. 

Whenever  my  young  thoughts  are  steeped  in 

thine 

I  feel  as  though  they  bathed  in  golden  wine — 
In  wine  the  grapes   for  which  were  golden- 
glossed 

Were  filled  with  juice  like  liquid  gold 
Were  seeded  with  gilt  balls,  that  rolled 
In  times  of  old,  when  they  by  Jove's  great  mind 
were  tossed. 

These  grapes  were  then  thrown  in  glass  bowls, 

by  feet 
Of  fairies  pressed — by  hands,  more  pure  and 

sweet 
Than  Daphne's,  touched ;  till,  when  a  bowl  was 

filled 


156 


The     Poet 


With  honeyed,  liquid,  through  a  sieve 
Of  gold  the  juice  was  strained — to  leave 
The  gilt   dregs   dream!     And  now   the   wine 
was  thrilled ! 

Whenever  my  young  thoughts  are  steeped  in 

thine, 

O  Tennyson,  thou  golden  bard  divine. 
Methinks  'twould  be  a  boon  to  live  in  gold 
In  gold,  that  glitters  like  thy  fair  thoughts 
In  gold,  that,  found  in  heavenly  courts, 
Contains   the   Beauties,   of   a   heaven-watched 
fold ! 

(1883) 


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